


Lovefool

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Broken Bones, Cutting, Drug Use, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/F, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Graphic Description, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Knives, Love Confessions, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mind Manipulation, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Psychological Trauma, Scars, Self-Hatred, Serious Injuries, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trauma, Violence, Whipping, Whump, Yennefer is the real MVP, kind of, misuse of painkillers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: A year post-dragon hunt, an already vulnerable and lonesome Jaskier is taken by the Nilfgaardian army in an effort to torture Cirilla's location out of him. His captors are people that he already knows, and that just does not make sense to him. And then, horrifyingly, it does.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 685
Kudos: 1697
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry, Just.... So cute...





	1. I'm Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> A preface note because I have been asked: this does have a happy ending. Enjoy!

The Nilfgaardians tasked with tracking Jaskier, the witcher’s bard, were of high rank. A mage of reasonable power and a skilled hunter lead the small party. They were cautious with their questioning, aware that the man had evaded their capture before. By all accounts given, this Jaskier they sought was cunning, agile, and well-liked. He might be protected.

It seemed bleakly amusing that they found him beneath an oak tree, half-dressed and snoring, a bottle of poppy milk still clutched in his hand.

“Would that it were always as easy as this,” The mage said, kneeling down. “He’s even drugged himself for us. What a simpleton.”

Their guard eyed the woods for threats – monster or witcher – but they stood sentinel-still. Jaskier was alone. It was just him, the opiates, and his few possessions.

“Get on with it.” The hunter barked. The mage narrowed her eyes at him. “We have work to do. Find out what he knows.”

She hummed, and placed her hands on Jaskier’s temples. He’d taken enough sedative that the intrusion of his mind was only subtly uncomfortable, and he stirred in his slumber, muttering. Her magic slunk through the folds of his brain, coaxing memory out, trying to break down barriers. Ultimately she withdrew, gasping with effort.

The grass around them was blackened and dead.

“They parted a year ago.” She muttered, “But before that, two decades of travel together. He may know secret places, the wolf’s hiding dens. Unfortunately, he’s built walls up very high around most of his memories with the witcher.”

“So break them down.” The hunter said.

“It’s not that easy, you clod.” She retorted. “These are things he’s sealed off out of some misguided loyalty. He knows we’re hunting him. He won’t give them up without a fight.” A slow smile spread across her face. “Luckily, I believe I know a way to topple those defenses. Might take a bit of time, but...” She looked up at the hunter. “How good are you at acting?”

“What?” He snapped. “I’m no entertainer. I’m a soldier.”

“You will do what is required of Nilfgaard to secure knowledge of the lioness’ cub,” She said, rising, “and the easiest way will be to use his weaknesses against him.”

“What weaknesses?” The hunter asked.

“He loves the witcher.”

* * *

When Jaskier woke up, the fuzzy feeling that filtered into his conscious mind was not foreign. He knew that he’d been relying on poppy milk more and more for a dreamless sleep, the quantities increasing as his body got used to the drug. But it was a good trade off, he thought; no more nightmares, no more haunting golden eyes, no more fucking... mountain.

Perhaps a year should have been enough time to get over the whole ordeal. But no matter how many people he took to bed, no matter how much ale he sunk, no matter how many pretty new outfits he had tailored – the hollow of him still ached, raw at the edges. Exactly the same as the day Geralt had chewed up his heart and hopes and spat them at his feet with those words. He would not think of those _words_.

He noted absently that he was not on the forest floor where he made camp. He was on a bed, of sorts; the pallet was low to the ground, and the mattress was more of a potato-sack stuffed with itchy straw. As he went to move he heard the tell-tale clink of chains. _Ah, fuck_ , he thought. _Kidnapped again._

Now that he traveled alone, this had happened a couple of times already. The first lot of bandits just wanted his money, to rough him up, and to call him a bunch of terribly boring names that lacked any real poetic sting. Mercifully, they’d left his lute. The second time was more serious; a low-ranking Nilfgaardian soldier had caught him unaware when he’d bumbled out of a tavern, silly from drink. He’d cuffed Jaskier’s hands and had thrown him onto the back of a wagon. On the road, Jaskier managed to pick the lock with a sturdy slip of iron he kept sewn into his trouser seam, and had tumbled off the moving vehicle, fleeing into the woods.

That was when he figured out that he had a price on his head – _why_ , he could not really fathom – and he’d been more careful after that. Right up until last night. And now there he was, shackled against a wall, in some kind of... cellar?

“You’re awake.” A feminine voice spoke, and Jaskier jumped.

“Gods, but you do blend in with the—yes, I am. Might I enquire as to where, exactly, I am?” He tried his best charming voice, rough though it was from thirst.

“You’ve been brought here on orders.” The woman replied.

Jaskier groaned. “Listen, if you’re with Nilfgaard – I have no idea what I did to offend, but truly, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you could be so kind as to loosen these shackles, and we can speak civilly?”

“Nilfgaard?” A familiar voice rumbled, and Jaskier’s eyes shot to the door. He felt a surge of hope and heartbreak at the same time. It was a unique feeling; he’d have to write about it later.

“Geralt!” Jaskier sighed in relief, “Please tell this nice lady that there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Geralt stood in the doorway, exactly as Jaskier remembered him from the mountain. Imposing, rigid, his unusual eyes vivid with distaste and a faint sense of boredom. And Gods, so beautiful. Even though Jaskier wanted nothing more then to hurl some choice words – and maybe a shoe – at the witcher, he couldn’t believe how much he’d missed the simple sight of him.

“Why would I do that?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier canted his head.

“Because she has me _chained_ to a _bed_ , Geralt, and I promise you this is not one of my... adventurous exploits of the lewd variety. I was taken here against my will.” Unease began to sneak through his veins as Geralt strolled to the woman’s side. Geralt jerked his head towards the door, and she bowed, departing. “...Geralt?”

“You really think Nilfgaard would give two shits about you, Jaskier?” The witcher’s voice was vivid with amusement. “I know you’re self-important, but that’s rather rich.”

“I don’t understand.” Jaskier said, feebly. “Look, I know we didn’t... part on the nicest terms, but I’d really appreciate it if you undid these blasted shackles.”

Geralt crouched, his eyes level with the bard’s, gold on blue. “Why?”

Jaskier spluttered. “Because I don’t want to be tied to a bed? Geralt, what in all the hells has—”

The backhand that whipped Jaskier's face to the side didn’t hurt, because it was so unexpected. His adrenaline spiked in the aftermath of it, and he tried to blink the room back into focus. Did... did Geralt just _hit him?_

“There’s no Nilfgaard here, Jaskier. I had you hunted and tracked. I had you shackled.” Geralt’s voice, usually so soothing, was a savage snarl.

Slowly, Jaskier turned his face back to meet the witcher’s, his cheek throbbing. “Why?” Was all he could think to ask, stupidly.

“Because you made my life an absolute nightmare. The day you stepped into it, everything changed. I’ve had years to think about it – about where it went wrong. And I can trace it all back to you, Jaskier.” Geralt’s eyes were steady. Jaskier felt as though he might be sick.

“Witchers don’t... get revenge, they don’t... after Blaviken, you don’t...” Jaskier tried to make sense of it, but he could not.

“I buried a lot after Blaviken. But you came along, shit-shoveler, and brought it back to the surface.” Rising again, Geralt casually strolled over to a rack that Jaskier hadn’t noticed. It was laden with instruments of torture; some he was familiar with, some looked so exotic and painful that he actually did retch, bringing up foamy bile.

“No.” He moaned, “This isn’t you. You’re under... a spell, or something. Geralt, I—I know you.”

“You knew Geralt of Rivia. Now you’ll meet the Butcher of Blaviken. And oh, we have so much to chat about. Let’s start at the beginning, hmm? In that shitty tavern? Tell me our story, Jaskier, and I’ll tell you all the ways you ruined me.”

Tears sprung to Jaskier’s eyes. “You’re lying.” He hissed, “Geralt never talks this much.”

A punch to the gut, hard enough to force the air from his lungs and make him double over. He wheezed, straining against the shackles. Geralt chuckled.

“I hit you like that on the first day, remember?” He said. “Bit softer, though. Feels good to do it properly.”

Jaskier moaned, and the tears clung to his eyelashes. “Lia--r.” He accused.

“You ruined my life, Jaskier.” Geralt reiterated, “And now, I’m going to ruin yours. Fair is fair.”

As he turned to leave, Jaskier grew frantic. “No, Geralt, come back, you don’t mean—you can’t!” But the door swung shut and left him in darkness, with bruising at his face and ribs and a chaos storm of thoughts.

* * *

Time passed. Jaskier didn’t know how long; he only knew that the best he could do to keep the bed clean was to strain at one side with the pull of the shackles and relieve himself on the ground. He had a headache, and he was void of any tool that would be useful in undoing his binds. Not that they were easy things; double-locked, secure. At least his arms were by his sides, and he could prop himself against the wall.

When the door swung open, he squinted at the light, blinking at the figure as his eyes adjusted. He thought he recognised the silhouette, but he couldn’t be sure until she summoned a small firey orb, bathing the room in light. He never thought he’d be pleased to see Yennefer again, but his life had taken a rather odd turn.

“Oh, thank the Gods, thank the Gods,” Jaskier babbled, “Yennefer. Geralt has gone mad, he’s under an enchantment – have you seen to him?”

Yennefer placed a dish down; stale bread floating in water. Jaskier blinked at it. He didn’t understand why she was giving him the ration, but his throat flared painfully, and he guzzled the water.

“Careful, now.” Yennefer said, sweetly. “Too quick and you’ll be sick.”

Jaskier lowered the plate. “Yennefer, please. Geralt. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.” She smiled, and Jaskier was reminded of an animal trap; steel teeth waiting to be sprung, to sink into flesh and crack bone.

“So you’ll—can you undo these shackles?”

Yennefer giggled. “Ah, you are so very dense, Jaskier. Geralt spelled it out for you, but you’re still so convinced of things that just aren’t real, aren’t you? You’re here because we want you to be.”

Jaskier felt his heart skip, and then sink. Geralt could be under a spell – although he was resistant to magic – but Yennefer was too powerful for that. With a sudden surge of anger, he considered that she might be the one controlling him. He bared his teeth.

“Let him go, you bitch.” He hissed, “He’s not a puppet.”

She held up her hands. “I find this whole thing distasteful, Jaskier. But it’s what he wanted, and I love him. He’s not under my control. Why in the world would I bother doing this to you?” She gestured to the bed, “If I wanted you dead, I’d simply murder you. You’re nothing to me.”

Again, Jaskier felt panic clench his stomach. He fought to keep the water down. “It’s not true.” He whispered, “You’re both lying, you’re both... it’s not true.”

Yennefer shrugged, nonchalant. “I don’t care what you think, bard.” And then she and her light were gone, the door closing behind them.

Jaskier screamed after her until his voice was raw, but nobody came.

* * *

Jaskier must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, he was being doused in water. He yelped at the sudden chill, straining at the chains, and stared up at a smirking Geralt. He was holding a bucket, which he placed down.

“Good morning, my travel companion.” His voice was a sneer. Jaskier shivered with cold.

“Ger-Geralt,” He stuttered, “You don’t h-have to do this.”

“Where were we?” Geralt ignored him, frowning. “Ah, yes. We’d left the inn, I’d punched you. Some absolute nonsense with the elves – we can skip that, because I dearly wish I’d let them butcher you and sell your bones for pig-food.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed. He was dizzy, and he tried to lick some of the water from his face to soothe his sore mouth. Geralt was staring at him expectantly. “I wrote a song, after.” He supplied timidly, trying to be helpful.

The witcher leaned in closely, and Jaskier tried not to flinch away. “I fucking hate that song.”

“But it... brings you coin, it...” His teeth were chattering, “It makes traveling easier. P-people are nicer.”

“You know nothing about how people are to me, you stupid bard.” Geralt snapped, “You’ve seen nothing. Your little song brought you money, made you spoiled and happy. That’s all. You got rich off of my back, my blood, my sweat!” As Geralt's voice raised, Jaskier braced himself, and sure enough he felt the weight of a strike across his face again. It was in the same place as the day before, and he felt his teeth rattle with the force. It was followed by another, a closed-fist punch. His lip split and blood dripped down his chin.

Jaskier gasped, tasting salty metal on his tongue, and squeezed his eyes shut. “I never meant for it to be like that.” He rushed, “I always paid for our rooms, our meals, for Roach. I tried to share, I tried—”

He was cut off by another strike, and he spat a clot of blood at the ground, moaning.

“So you write a song. Then what did you do, Jaskier? Think hard.”

The next hours were the worst of Jaskier’s life to date. Geralt paced up and down like a caged beast, coaxing every day out of his memory. When he wasn’t specific enough, he was beaten. When he begged for mercy, he was beaten. By the time Geralt washed his bloodied hands, they’d only covered halfway up to the events of the djinn.

And Geralt was sure to point out every single error Jaskier had made along the way, no matter how minute.

“We’ll pick up our fairy-tale tomorrow, bard.” Geralt said, patting Jaskier's swollen cheek. Jaskier was leaning back against the wall, half-conscious. He moaned, and Geralt spat, and left him in darkness.

Carefully, Jaskier took stock. Bruises – he felt a lot of bruises. Face, neck, arms, torso, legs. Gingerly, he flexed each part of his body. No broken bones. He ran his tongue through his mouth, dislodged another sticky wad of blood. Missing a molar. Not too bad, he tried to assure himself. He knew Geralt, he would just wait for an opportunity –

But did he _really_ know Geralt?

Confused, hurt and frightened, he succumbed to an achy, unsatisfying slumber.

* * *

When the door opened, Jaskier recognised Yennefer. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of him. The dish of bread and water was placed down again.

“You look shitty.” She said, and Jaskier almost laughed.

“He’s strong, Yennefer. He’ll fight this. Maybe they’ve got you, too – I don’t know.” Gingerly, he sipped at the water, and took bites of the bread. His throat hurt when he swallowed.

“I wonder when you’ll figure it out.” Yennefer sighed, “That this is him. You made this bed, Jaskier. Now you get to lay in it – piss-soaked and bloody as it is. I still maintain that we should just kill you and have done with it, but,” She raised her shoulders, “He has years of pent-up rage. He thinks this will release him from it. Take you off his hands.”

_One blessing..._

Jaskier shuddered. “Fuck off, Yennefer.” Was all he could manage, and it was delivered weakly.

“Until tomorrow, bird.” She purred, and left him to the dungeon and to the crust of his bread.

* * *

When Jaskier slept, his dreams were confused. Sometimes he was sat by a campfire with Geralt, and he was telling a story, and Geralt wasn’t laughing – not quite – but his eyes were dancing. Sometimes Geralt had his hands around Jaskier’s throat, his features twisted with rage. Sometimes they were comfortable at an inn, sharing a meal with the last of Jaskier’s coin. He slept, he woke. He felt the grime building up on his skin, the discomfort of sitting in one place for so long. He stunk of dehydrated urine and sweat.

The door swung open, and Geralt strode in. Jaskier straightened, defiant. He knew he must have looked a sight, but he didn’t care. He stared the witcher down, even as the man ignored him, looking through the rack of torture tools.

“Sleep well?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier made a small huff, but did not reply. “Ah, businesslike today. Shall we get straight to it, then?”

“You’re better than this, Geralt.” Jaskier hissed, “You can fight this.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “It really is all just a fantasy to you, isn’t it? My pain. The things I’ve endured at your hand. You think them romantic. You think me some hero. I was made to be a monster, Jaskier. All those pretty books you read at Oxenfurt, all the stupid songs you sing – wasn’t it you that said ‘respect doesn’t make history’? So you embellish it.” He selected a long, thin rod. It looked similar to a crop that a teacher might use to beat a student, but there were small metal spikes along one end.

“I have never romanticised your pain...” Jaskier said.

“You put puns in your insipid songs. Like it’s all a big, fun joke.” The witcher turned. “Are you laughing now? Am I? Did I ever laugh?”

Jaskier scowled, and remained silent. Geralt scoffed.

“So, we were coming up to the lake. Tell me about that day.”

Jaskier didn’t say a word. He just glared.

Geralt raised the crop and struck it across the bard’s face. The metal caught Jaskier's skin and sliced it open. He hissed, but the witcher did not stop there; he brought it down again, on his chest, and again. When he paused, the tattered cloth was dark with blood and Jaskier was whimpering.

“You were... fishing. For a djinn.” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt’s teeth gleamed in the firelight. “I know. Tell me how you ruined that, too.”

It was much the same as the day before. Jaskier had learned not to skimp on detail; he tried his best to recall sounds, and smells. He even described Yennefer’s orgy in slick, sweaty depth, the words spilling from him until he could no longer speak. His throat was raw.

Geralt had beaten him less this time. He stooped, and offered Jaskier a bladderskin of water. Jaskier wanted to refuse, but he was so thirsty that he guzzled down every drop that was offered to him, sobbing his relief. Geralt ran his hand through Jaskier’s sweaty, greasy hair, soothing him with low noises. The small comfort made Jaskier ache in such a pathetic way.

“Good work, Jaskier.” Geralt praised, “You’re starting to tell the story properly. To identify where you fucked up. It almost makes me not want to break your leg.”

Jaskier paled. “W-What? I—you don’t, no, Geralt—”

But Geralt was humming, picking up a hammer. He tilted his head as he examined Jaskier’s outstretched limbs, as if an artist before a fresh canvas. Jaskier kept up a stream of protests, pleas, until the weight of the instrument was brought down upon his left knee.

He screamed so loudly that the sound shattered like his patella, agony rippling through his spent and tortured body until it peaked in his brain and mercifully, he passed out.

* * *

When Jaskier regained consciousness, it was dark. He’d never known pain before – not like this. Not the physical agony that zapped electric through him with every minuscule movement, not mental distress that boiled at his fevered mind. Terrified, he tried to recall the events he’d be forced to recount – the story of the dragon hunt. With obsession he turned over detail, wanting to be useful, wanting a reprieve from the experience. Wanting to please Geralt, even if only temporarily.

But it did not play out that way.

When the witcher returned, he had knives. Jaskier began speaking immediately, starting where they left off, heavily leaning into his own mistakes – the way he’d dropped firewood, or the way he’d overcooked meat, or the way he’d dawdled once to pick pretty flowers. Geralt hummed in mild interest, cutting away Jaskier's clothes. But he said nothing.

Naked and scared, Jaskier’s voice hitched when Geralt began slicing into his flesh, but he did not stop speaking. He recalled the mountain, everything he could think of. He felt his own blood trickle down his chest, and he gasped at the sharp feeling of the blade as it carved his skin. Still he talked.

“A-and then you, you turned me away and that was the last time I—I saw you until now.” Jaskier finished, exhausted. Geralt leaned back, and smiled.

“Great story.” Geralt said. “Do you like your new mark?”

Jaskier didn’t want to look down. He didn’t want to know. But if he didn’t, he knew it would be worse for him. Slowly, he tilted his chin, and saw the word etched deeply into his chest: _FOOL_.

“You’re not a bard, Jaskier. You’re a jester. A moron. A fool. Good for nothing and nobody.” Geralt tilted his head. “Do you understand?”

Tearfully, Jaskier slowly nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Geralt said, and rose. “Until tomorrow, jester.”

Jaskier thought he couldn’t cry any more than he already had, but he was wrong.

* * *

“Nice design.” Yennefer’s voice roused Jaskier from sleep, and he stared blearily at her. She was offering a pitcher of water, and a crusty roll. His hunger and thirst made him reach for it unthinkingly, and he gulped the liquid down. The bread was old and covered in bits of mould but he didn’t care. He tore at it like an animal.

“Not sure you’ll walk on that leg again.” Yennefer continued, as Jaskier eyed her. “Looks like it hurts.”

“If you don’t like what he’s doing,” Jaskier moaned, “Why aren’t you stopping him?”

Yennefer blinked. “Oh, that should be fairly obvious. When he’s done, he’ll kill you. And I don’t really like you. Never have.”

“I don’t... like you either.” Jaskier tried to defend himself, but it sounded lame to his own ears. Of course he liked Yennefer. He liked almost everyone. Even though she took up Geralt’s time, and his heart, he thought she was smart and funny and fierce.

But now he knew her to be cruel.

“Adorable that you think I care.” She replied, and took away the jug.

Jaskier fell into a twist of confused dreams again, waking only to blackness.

* * *

“You stole my wishes. Wishes that I needed.” Geralt thundered.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier whispered. Geralt hit him.

“You made witchers into little pets for profit with your songs and your games.”

“I’m sorry.” Another blow.

“You tried to drive Yennefer, my only love, away from me.”

“I’m sorry.” He felt another rib crack.

“You only ever thought of yourself, always. What you wanted.”

“ _I’m sorry._ ”

* * *

Perhaps days passed, or weeks -- Jaskier wasn’t sure -- but he felt the cold relief of a healing salve being applied to the worst of his injuries. He whimpered in a mixture of thanks and confusion, creaking his eyes open. Yennefer. Why would she...?

“Need you in better condition so you can tell the story again.” She said, as if reading Jaskier’s mind.

“Again?” Jaskier’s mouth was too cut up for him to say much. He felt water at his lips, and drank.

“Again and again until you tell it properly, jester. He’s not satisfied.”

Jaskier wanted to cry. He wanted to beg Yennefer to just let him succumb to his injuries and die. Instead, he simply whispered,

“I’m sorry.”

* * *

It was different, this time. Geralt sat in a chair and listened as Jaskier told the whole tale. He re-examined everything from a critical perspective. When he spoke of Geralt, the man was a celebrated warrior and legend. When he spoke of himself and his decisions, he was a stupid wretch, leeching off a greater man. Their story twisted into one of a poor witcher plagued by a cursed moron who brought intentional suffering everywhere he went.

By the time Jaskier got to the dragon hunt, he was weakened, but he added, “You rightfully turned me away. You’d put up with me for so long, and you’d had enough.”

“You thought that maybe I felt for you the way you feel for me.” Geralt said, speaking for the first time.

Jaskier flinched. Through all this, they’d managed to avoid the subject of Jaskier’s pitiful, unreciprocated feelings. His entire body thrummed with steady pain, but the remnants of his heart began to tremble. He knew better than to lie.

“Yes.” Jaskier rasped.

“That maybe I’d see the ‘error of my ways’ and love you _,_ a weak human. The reason for my pains.” Geralt began to laugh.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier murmured, instinctively. “I am a fool.”

“Hmm.” Geralt agreed, “But at least you’re starting to tell a good story, for once in your miserable little life.”

“When will you kill me?” Jaskier asked, without fear.

“When I am ready.” Geralt said, and rose. Jaskier waited to be struck, or stabbed, or whipped, but the blow never came. He was left in shadow.

As he slumped against the wall, sweaty – a fever had begun to take hold – he promised himself that he’d fix this somehow. If that meant paying with his life, so be it. He wouldn’t resist. Not Geralt, not Yennefer.

* * *

“Had I not met you, I’d not have to worry about a child surprise.” Geralt pressed the tip of a red-hot metal rod into the meat of Jaskier’s thigh. He flinched with the pain, but did not vocalise it.

“Sorry.” Jaskier’s voice hitched.

“She’s probably _dead_ now, and it’s _your_ fault.” Another burn, another jerk of Jaskier’s broken body.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt blurred in front of Jaskier’s vision.

“Where am I supposed to find her, hmm? After I’m done with you. I wasted all my time with you when I should have been looking out for her.” Two more presses of the rod, two more shudders.

“M’sorry.” Jaskier’s eyes fluttered closed. Geralt slapped him back into wakefulness.

“We are not done, jester. Tomorrow you tell the story again.”

Jaskier simply nodded, and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Outside, the hunter removed the ring from his finger that disguised him in the enchantment. The Nilfgaardian mage was sat at a table, frowning at the notes they had.

“He’s unconscious.” The hunter said, “Feverish. I’ll get him to talk again tomorrow.”

“There’s no point.” The mage sighed, “We’ve sent riders to all the locations he spoke about. Nothing. He’s got nothing useful. This has been a waste of time.”

The hunter curled his upper lip. “So I’ll go harder tomorrow. One last ditch effort. He tells us something useful, or he dies.”

The mage scoffed. “He’ll die either way.”

The hunter shrugged. “Worth a try. We’ve come this far.”

Donning her own ring and slipping into the guise of Yennefer, the mage shook her head. “Fine. I’ll go treat his fever just enough to keep him alive for your questions. But after tomorrow, we head out, back to base. We report what we know and we get a new assignment. Hopefully one that doesn’t involve weeks underground in some backwater town shit-hole.”

The hunter made a noise of agreement. “Pity he’s too fucked-up. He would’ve made such a pretty slave. I see why the witcher toted him around for so long, honestly. He’ll just take whatever you throw at him.”

“Figure out something for dinner, would you? And not fish again. See if the tavern has something that actually walked on the land.” The mage took up some salve and water, and disappeared down the hallway to see to Jaskier.

* * *

“No, no, you idiot. You fool. Tell me more about Rinde. Yennefer’s house – did it completely collapse?” Geralt had one huge hand around his neck, and Jaskier was wheezing for breath. He heard the rattle of his own blood in his lungs.

“Not... all of it.” Jaskier gasped, “Bottom... floor. Intact.”

Geralt released him. “This is why you’re useless. You left that bit out of the first two stories, didn’t you?”

“I’m... sorr--”

“Oh you’re sorry, _you’re sorry_ , I know.” Geralt jabbed his hand against Jaskier’s dislocated shoulder, earning him a low moan. “Sorry doesn’t fix shit, Jaskier.”

Another figure appeared in the doorway. Jaskier’s bleary baby-blues made out the shape of Geralt, which was rather peculiar, because Geralt was currently in the process of re-breaking some of his fingers. He watched with idle fascination as Geralt put a sword through Geralt’s skull.

Well. This was what it was like to entirely lose one’s mind, Jaskier noted.

The new Geralt stood over the dead Geralt and cursed upon seeing the state of Jaskier. “Jaskier? Speak to me.”

“I met you in a tavern when I was eighteen,” Jaskier wheezed, “I should have left you alone because I am a jester and an idiot—”

“What?” This new Geralt looked bewildered. “Fuck, your legs, your—fuck, Jaskier, I’m gonna get you out.”

Jaskier didn’t like this new game. He began to cry. “Please, please, _please_ just kill me. For my crimes. I am ready. I will pay for them.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Geralt’s voice was strained, and then he yelled, “Yen!”

“Oh Gods, no,” Jaskier whispered, “If you’re going to kill me don’t do it in front of—”

Yennefer appeared, dressed differently to how she had been before. Her violet eyes flashed with concern. “Geralt, step away from him. He needs to be stabilised before we can portal.”

“No, no, please,” Jaskier flinched as Yennefer approached, terror in his eyes, “I want Geralt to kill me, not you, _please_.”

Yennefer and Geralt exchanged frantic glances, before the mage placed her hand on Jaskier’s forehead. “Sleep.” She commanded, and thankfully, he did.

* * *

When Jaskier woke up, he was in a clean, comfortable bed. He was covered in bandages and splints and he could smell medicinal herbs. He knew he should be in pain, but he didn’t feel anything. Everything felt wrapped in cotton, far away.

_Ah_ , he mused, _this is the afterlife._

He considered it pretty unfair that the Gods would not just heal him, but he supposed he didn’t know much about the afterlife. It also occurred to him that this might not be a _good_ afterlife. With a deep tug of sorrow, he recalled all of the horrible, awful things he’d done in his life. The torment he’d inflicted upon Geralt.

If he was in one of the hells, it was a nice one. Maybe a demon had taken pity on him and had bandaged him. Woozily he wondered how one would best thank a demon. Did they like songs?

The door opened, and Geralt lingered in the doorway. Jaskier’s reaction was immediate, now that he was not chained; he scrunched up the bed and tried to press himself into the corner of the room as tightly as possible. Tried not to take up space. Tried to be invisible. One of his splints creaked and he felt stitches tug, but he didn’t dare move.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_ ,” Jaskier chanted, his voice a whisper.

Geralt’s eyes were glossy, and he didn’t move from the doorway. “You’re awake.” He said. His voice was hesitant, as if speaking to a small child, or a coltish animal.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier blurted, not pausing to question why he was apologising. He just hoped it’d earn him favour.

“Why... are you sorry?” Geralt sounded lost.

Jaskier tried to press himself further into the corner, which was an impossibility. Blood began to seep through one of the bandages. Geralt frowned, and took a step forward. Jaskier squeaked.

“I-I-I was eighteen and a fool and a jester in an inn, and you y-you you were minding your business, a h-hero—” His words were rushed and fumbled and Geralt halted in his tracks, raising his hands up in surrender.

“Hey, shh, none of that is true. It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re out.” Geralt took a step back.

Jaskier’s eyes darted around the room for the rack. There wasn’t one, but the fireplace had a poker, and he saw a vase full of flowers, and the laces on some boots. This new game had new rules, and he didn’t know them. He trembled. “Sorry.” He mouthed.

Geralt shook his head and slowly backed out of the room, closing the door. Jaskier stayed where he was, even when his muscles began to ache. When it was apparent that Geralt wasn’t returning, he slowly climbed off the bed. First he tried the small window, and found it locked. Then, he slunk under the bed, amongst the dust and cobwebs, and huddled as close to the wall as possible.

* * *

“It’s bad, Yen,” Geralt despaired downstairs, his hands threaded in his hair, “It’s so bad.”

“I know.” Yennefer said, looking about as exhausted as Geralt felt. Healing many of Jaskier’s wounds had depleted her, and she was trying to recharge as best she could. “I saw... into his mind. What they did to him. What they said to him.”

“He believes it, doesn’t he?” Geralt sat heavily in a chair, rocking a little.

“He didn’t at first, but...” Yennefer sighed. “After awhile, everyone breaks. He’s terrified of both of us.”

“What the fuck do we do?”

She took a small sip of her tea. “There were mages that could have helped us, but... so many are in hiding now.” _Or dead_ , she thought, but she did not say that. “We just have to try to rebuild. I can do my best with him physically, but his mind... it’s...”

“I know.” Geralt whispered, “I know.” His bleary eyes gazed out the window, watching as Cirilla sat in the garden, playing with a wooden sword. “This is my fault. All of it. If I’d just gone after him on the mountain, if I’d... realised how valuable Nilfgaard would consider him—”

“Blame is not going to help him heal, Geralt.” Yennefer’s words were sharp. “I know you love to self-flagellate, but now is not the time.”

“He won’t even let me near him.” Geralt said, “How am I to gain his trust?”

“From afar, at first. And by telling the fucking truth, Geralt.” Yennefer squeezed his hand. “You know what I mean.”

He nodded. “Thank you for helping me rescue him. I couldn’t live with myself if...” Geralt didn’t want to finish the sentence.

“We may be bound by a wish, Geralt, and I do love you. And I know you love me. But that bard? He’s the other half of you. You’d do the same for me.”

Geralt closed his eyes and tried to breathe. Tried not to think about how badly he just wanted to hug Jaskier, hold him, tell him how sorry he was. Tried not to think about the broken, shivering man locked away upstairs. About how the very sight of the witcher sent him into a frenzy of terror.

“Ciri.” He muttered, “He’ll love Ciri.” 


	2. The Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier meets Ciri. He tries to untangle the confusion in his mind and make sense of his new situation. Yennefer and Geralt continue to work out how best to heal him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still angst and sad, folks! I am not sure when the happy will come. Slowly I guess.

Jaskier waited until he heard no sound at all, save for the gentle swishing of the trees nodding in the breeze outside, and then he slowly inched his way out from beneath the bed. He was dusty, but that didn’t bother him. Not after weeks of the filth that had caked his skin. Unable to move very fast because of his tightly bound and plaster-set knee, he shambled as quietly as possible to take inventory. The poker was picked up first, and then the vase. He dumped the flowers out, spilling the water on the floor. He thought about breaking the glass, but it was very thick, and it’d make too much noise.

Next, he undid the laces on the boots, and took those. With care, he opened the closet door. It was completely empty, save for an extra blanket, which he pulled out. Finally, he shuffled back to the bed, and looked through the dresser beside it. There was a pitcher of fresh water and a clean cup, and he sniffed the liquid, before drinking from the jug anyway. If they wanted to poison him, there wasn’t much he could do about that. The drawers themselves were empty. Jaskier spotted a chamber-pot in the corner, and felt a strange mixture of relief and confusion.

Pulling the quilt and pillow from atop the bed, he retreated back under the frame, back into the darkness. He kept the vase, poker and laces behind him. In front of him, he erected something of a barrier using the linens. The floor was unforgivingly hard, but he felt far less exposed. A small gap in his fortress allowed him a view of the door. It was the best he could do for now; even the simple exercise had exhausted him.

His eyes remained on the door, mistrustful, until he succumbed to sleep in his nest.

* * *

“Have you made yourself a fort?” A young voice filtered into Jaskier's consciousness, and he jolted awake. A girl knelt on the floor, far enough away that Jaskier could not lash out at her – not even with the poker – but close enough that he felt the need to shuffle further into the wall. Deeper into the dark.

“Who are you?” He croaked, unable to see much of her through his barricade. Damn his curiosity; he nudged the blankets apart, just a little. The girl was smiling sweetly, not moving. Jaskier knew her face; he racked his addled brain as he tried to place it. She looked so much like Pavetta, but she could not have been more then twelve years old. And Pavetta was dead, but—

“Princess... Cirilla?” He guessed, but his voice held no delight or astonishment.

“You can call me Ciri.” She beamed at him, “You are Jaskier, the bard. You played at my name day, once.”

_Bard!_ Jaskier's mind screeched, _Jester! Fool!_ He flinched, and whimpered. Ciri’s eyes softened with concern.

“Are... are you dead, too?” Jaskier asked, “Is that my fault as well?”

Confusion flitted across Ciri’s youthful features. “I’m not dead, Jaskier. Nor are you. We’re in a safe house, with Geralt and Yennefer.”

Both names sent fear licking savage and electric up his spine. He reached behind him to curl his hand around the poker. “They... they’re not... where are they?”

“Downstairs.” Ciri said, “Geralt won’t come up until you say he can.”

Jaskier could not make sense of that whatsoever. Maybe Ciri was the little demon that had helped him, because surely she was in denial and they _were_ dead. But any child of Pavetta’s would not be condemned to one of the hells, Jaskier was certain of that. Perhaps this was some sort of trick to lower his guard.

“And what of Y-Y-Yen—Yenne—” He stammered, unable to get the name out.

“She will come up only to see to your wounds.” Ciri said. Jaskier recalled how Yennefer had ‘seen to his wounds’ in the dungeon; he remembered the foul smell of the healing salve, the coppery taste of the water rations. He tried to breathe, tried to calm the racing of his heart, even as he gripped the poker tighter.

“I’ve brought you dinner.” Ciri offered, and Jaskier curled his upper lip -- until he drew in a proper breath and the scent hit him. He actually bit back a sob. Whatever it was smelt rich, meaty and wholesome. He could almost taste the fresh, warm bread that accompanied it; flaky and golden, unsullied by mould.

A trap. It had to be a trap. But Gods, Jaskier wanted to eat. He let the tears spill down his cheeks.

“What—what would I have to do for it?” He asked, his voice broken.

Ciri chewed her bottom lip. “Nothing.” She whispered, looking so distressed that Jaskier ached for her. Was she regretting her place in Geralt’s plan? Of course, he had no idea what that plan _was_ , but he knew that whatever she was doing, she was an innocent party.

“Nothing?” He echoed, stupidly, “You don’t... I don’t have... to tell the story?”

The girl shook her head. “You just need to come out a little bit so you can reach the tray.”

Jaskier’s eyes darted to the door. It was closed. He thought it over; there was no need to coax him out from under the bed like a stray cat. If Geralt wanted him out, he could easily lift the entire damn frame and extract Jaskier that way. The risk-to-reward ratio seemed favourable. Gradually, he pushed the blankets aside, and began to wriggle out.

Ciri gasped at the state of him. His bandages were coming undone, and blood had soaked through some of them. His face was still littered with bruises, and what skin she could see was mottled similarly. Jaskier flinched as though she’d slapped him, and hastily withdrew back under the bed, pushing the blankets back up.

“Sorry,” He gasped, “I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry, your highness—”

“No, please,” Ciri said, “I just—I didn’t expect for you to be so wounded. Please, come out.”

“I’m a fool, a jester, I’m sorry,” Jaskier rambled, trying impossibly to squish further into the wall, “I frightened you and I am sorry. Please, don’t tell Geralt. _Please_.”

Ciri’s lower lip wobbled. She had to be brave; she tried to remember all the things Geralt and Yennefer had told her. How gentle she had to be. They were counting on her. “Of course I won’t.” She promised, “You have my word.”

The word of Cintra’s Lioness was something that Jaskier still believed to be sacred. He didn’t know the fate of the Queen, but considering Ciri was here – with Geralt...

His mind whipped between his current state, and a banquet so long ago. When he’d stupidly saddled Geralt with the responsibility of a child surprise – because he had, hadn’t he? That had been his fault, just like all the other things he’d done to the witcher. But Ciri was here – if indeed here was a real place – and so was Geralt, and that meant he’d found his child surprise.

He recalled a beating focused around the topic. He didn’t remember much, save for the pain and the tumble of his own apologies, but Geralt had been asking where he’d find her. And now, it appeared, he had.

“I’ll leave the tray here.” Ciri said, and slowly rose. “I’ll come back a bit later, okay? Would that be alright?”

Jaskier was stunned to be given a choice. He thought about refusing – but he knew she’d tell Geralt, and that might mean seeing him instead. “Yes.” Jaskier agreed, deciding upon the lesser evil, “Yes, your highness.”

Ciri clicked her tongue. “Ciri.” She corrected, and Jaskier winced.

“Your Highness _Ciri_.” He offered, meekly.

The girl paused, and Jaskier felt cold all over. Would she call for Geralt? Or Yennefer? Gods, he couldn’t even get a simple name right. Truly he was useless. He felt his pulse in his throat until she sighed, and simply left the room.

Jaskier heard her footsteps descend some stairs, and then he could hear no more. He waited as long as he possibly could before squirming out from the bed, pulling the tray of food towards himself. The stew had cooled, but he didn’t care; he scooped it up with his fingers like a frantic beast, barely chewing the meat before swallowing it. Certainly not long enough to identify the animal. Honestly, it could be roasted rat, and Jaskier would not give a damn.

He was almost finished with the bowl before he noticed the spoon on the tray. Picking up the wooden tool, he examined it with reverence, looking over his food-smeared hands. _Disgusting_ , he thought of himself. _Fool_. He was too hungry not to lick the remnants of the stew from his fingers, but after that, he used the spoon. He scraped the gravy from the bowl with the heel of fresh bread, and cried when he didn’t nearly break a tooth on the crust. When it was all gone, he picked up the cup, expecting water.

When his tongue hit the fresh orange juice, he spat it out in shock. Bewildered, he stared at the liquid, and then downed it as fast as he could swallow. He placed the cup back, kept the spoon, and pushed the tray as far away from his nest as possible.

He was messy, sticky, but his stomach was full. Maybe the meal had been laced with toxins, but Jaskier couldn’t find it in him to care. He curled up as much as his leg would allow him, facing the door, and closed his eyes. When sleep found him, he was still clutching the spoon to his chest.

* * *

It was dark when the door opened again, but Jaskier was used to the dark. The fact that there was a window actually made him realise just how bright moonlight really was. He peeked through his blankets, and saw Ciri.

“Jaskier?” She asked, “May I light a candle?”

He thought of fire, of burns, and touched his bandaged thigh. “On... on the mantle?” He asked, “Not near the bed.” And then he realised he was directing royalty, and hastily tacked on, “Your Majesty, Princess Cirilla, please.”

The room brightened as she took a spill from the fireplace and lit the wick, placing it where Jaskier had instructed. “Please, just call me Ciri, Jaskier.” The girl asked. Her tone was not reproachful. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier apologised anyway, “If it pleases you.”

Ciri sat on the floor, much like a child and not like a princess. She was very young, Jaskier observed, but there was a weariness to her face that spoke of tragedy and torment. He felt his heart clench again.

“You ate the stew.” Ciri noted, pleased, “Was it to your liking? I cut up the carrots.”

“It was,” The best thing Jaskier had ever tasted in recent memory? No, too much. “They were the best carrots I have had the pleasure of tasting in my life.”

The little girl grinned, and Jaskier felt a warmth flood through him. “I’m trying to learn to cook, but it’s hard.”

“Oh, I know.” Jaskier chuckled, “On the road, whenever it is my turn, Ger—” He froze up. Memories twirled in a horrible dance in his mind’s eye; him burning a rabbit. Geralt, savage with rage, beating him. The smell of a campfire. Hands around his throat, bruising, choking. _Stupid, stupid_ ; didn’t get enough firewood. Didn’t boil the potatoes long enough. Didn’t—

“It’s nice to be in a house.” Ciri sensed his distress, and changed the subject. “I have my own room. There’s a nice garden, too. I don’t know how long we’ll be here, but... it’s nice.”

“Nice.” Jaskier echoed, trying to push the memories away. They were becoming knitted together, and he couldn’t remember what had happened when. Had Geralt beaten him after he burnt the rabbit? No, he’d been captured – hadn’t he? But... by Geralt. And then taken away by Geralt, who had murdered Geralt. He felt his head ache. The pain of his other injuries – he’d grown used to them, almost. But this confusion was new and unwanted.

“Your lute is downstairs.” Ciri said, “We found it when we were looking for you.”

Jaskier made a squeak. His beloved lute! Oh, Gods, his fingers ached at the idea of touching it again. His fingers. He looked down, and saw them – some bandaged, with the linen soaked by the stew, and some simply bent crooked. He tried to flex them, and bit back a noise of pain.

“Will you play for me?” Ciri asked, “Later?”

“I... can’t.” Jaskier realised, “And I shouldn’t, anyway. I sing very badly, and my songs are nonsense.” He closed his eyes. “G-Ger—they aren’t well regarded. By... everyone. Or anyone, I think.” _Stop babbling. Fool._

“I like them.” The child shrugged, “I’ve heard other bards sing them. They’re very popular.”

Her quiet honesty warred with the torture that had been beaten into him. Geralt hated his songs. Geralt said they were bad, and stupid, and he only ever got paid because he’d been pretty – once – and people had felt sorry for him. Geralt knew better than him. But Ciri – why would Geralt tell her to lie?

“I-I still can’t play.” Jaskier said, softly, “My fingers. I am not sure they’ll...” He huffed out a humourless laugh. “At least I still have them, though. All ten. Yes.”

Ciri made a small sound of distress. “They will heal. We’ll heal them, Jaskier.”

_Why?_ Jaskier wondered. Maybe so they could break them again. Gods, he’d bothered Geralt for twenty years. Twenty years of horrible misfortunes and things that the witcher had to shoulder because of him. Was that why he was being healed? Would Geralt just... start everything over?

In his silence, Ciri continued. “Yennefer will be up soon, to change your bandages. I was wondering if you wanted me to stay.”

“No.” Jaskier blurted, “I mean no, she doesn’t have to—no need to change anything. I feel absolutely perfectly in health. Quite alright.”

“I saw blood on your chest and legs, Jaskier.” Ciri said.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier whimpered, “Terribly silly of me. How about I—I change the bandages? I can do that.”

“She needs to keep healing you.”

“Why?” His voice was growing higher in pitch, “I am quite well, as I said. Well, save for—for the blood, which you so rightly saw, forgive me. No need to bother Yennefer.”

“Oh, come now.” An older female voice. Jaskier froze. “You used to love bothering me, Jaskier.”

“Yen—Yennefer.” Jaskier breathed, “I-I-I’m very sorry if I bothered you, I don’t wish to do it again, no I do not. A-as I was telling the lovely Ciri, I’m very—very well indeed—”

Yennefer stooped. She was dressed simply; high waisted black pants and a ruffled green blouse. Jaskier could not remember her changing clothes during the time in the dungeon. She looked nice, but he figured that telling her as much wouldn’t play out well for him.

“You’ve never bothered me, Jaskier.” Yennefer was trying to sound kind. It was an odd cadence to her usually commanding tone. “You aren’t bothering me now.”

Jaskier was trembling all over. “G-Gods, Yennefer, I-I never meant, never meant to be such... a problem. Never... m-meant to keep you from Geralt, never... I am sorry, I’m a fool, please—”

“Shh,” Yennefer’s face was pinched in distress, and Jaskier could not work out why. “Ciri, head on downstairs.”

“No,” Jaskier fumbled; the little girl was the only one who had shown him kindness. With her gone, Yennefer would return back to the cruel woman he knew. “Ciri, stay.” Fuck, he was reduced to begging a child for help. He truly was pathetic.

Ciri got up from the floor. “I’ll come back with breakfast, Jaskier.” She promised, and he heard the pad of her little feet, and the door close. _Shit_.

“Jaskier, I know what you went through.” Yennefer’s voice was still soft. She wasn’t moving to dislodge him. “I saw into your mind, when we got you out of the dungeon. I’m so terribly sorry we could not get to you sooner.”

Out of the dungeon? Geralt had put him in there. _Geralt killed Geralt._ The ache in his head increased.

“It’s okay.” Jaskier said obediently, trying to keep the migraine at bay, “It was my fault, you know.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I was eighteen, I think—very stupid. In an inn. I was a fool in an inn, and they threw bread at me when they should have thrown knives—”

“Don’t.” Yennefer’s voice was thick. She sounded like she was holding back tears. “Jaskier, please. Come out from the bed and let me treat your wounds.”

“I don’t have any wounds.” Jaskier said, and immediately regretted it. What a stupid lie. “I mean, none that... are bothering...”

Yennefer sighed heavily. She opened the door, and called down the stairs. “Geralt?”

“No,” Jaskier’s stomach churned. He pulled the poker out, and clutched it. “No, no, _no_ , please, Gods, I’m sorry, I—”

Geralt appeared in the doorway. Jaskier’s pulse rocketed as he tried in vain to make himself smaller. The witcher looked exhausted, and Jaskier supposed that was his fault.

“Jaskier, I’m just going to calm—”

“An idiot, a _fool_ , I followed you because I am very, very dumb, please have mercy on me, please forgive my mistakes, I-I will tell the stories again, I will write new songs, new ones, b-better—”

Geralt’s expression was heartbreaking. He cast a sign Jaskier had never seen before. Axii.

Suddenly, the world felt soupy and distant. He could only see Geralt; those cat-like eyes that he’d fallen in love with so long ago. “Come out from under the bed.” He heard the Witcher’s voice, and his limbs obeyed him without permission.

“...Under the bed.” Jaskier repeated, dropping the poker with a clatter. Sluggishly, he pulled himself out. Yennefer knelt.

“Get back onto the mattress and lay on your back.”

Something inside Jaskier screamed at him to fight, but he found it impossible. The edges of the world throbbed as he struggled, and he saw pain in the precious gold of Geralt’s irises. Yennefer helped him up, and then he was sinking into the comfort of the bed. Doing so, obeying, felt rather nice.

“I can’t hold him much longer, Yen,” Geralt murmured, “His mind is...”

“Too chaotic, I know.” Yennefer said.

“I’m... sorry.” Jaskier managed to get out, before he felt the mage’s fingers on his forehead.

He liked this part, because it meant a black sleep. Whatever they did to him when he was unconscious, well. He could just deal with that later. Yennefer barely had to suggest the idea, and he slipped under.

* * *

The two of them worked at the bandages, taking off the ruined ones to be washed and sterilised, examining the healing wounds. The least dire of them were bandaged again after a thick coating of medicinal salve had been applied. Yennefer took his hands, and began to work at those, concentrating.

“We should heal that word at his chest.” Geralt said, “Before it scars.”

“I only have so much energy, Geralt.” Yennefer’s voice was slow, “We already need to re-break two of his fingers to set them properly. I know he’d rather be able to play again.”

“He doesn’t deserve that mark!” Geralt began to pace, his hands knitted in his hair. “Fuck, he doesn’t... deserve any of this. Yen, when I came into the room—”

“I know.” She said, “It’s going to be hard, Geralt. But unless I need you, you’re going to have to wait for him to call you. Do you understand that?”

The witcher whined. He stroked Jaskier’s hair, picked dust from it. “Yes.” He conceded.

“Good.” Yennefer released Jaskier’s left hand. Most of the digits were in better condition, albeit swollen and bruised.

“Why is he... under the bed?”

“Because the darkness feels safer to him right now.” Yennefer explained, “It’s a place to hide.”

“It’s dirty and the floor is cold and hard.” Geralt said. “I don’t like it.”

“We don’t get to choose how he wants to heal.”

Geralt paused, and hummed. Then he left the room. Yennefer kept working, but watched idly as Geralt began to bring things up the stairs; a table, furs, more blankets and cushions. He positioned the table beneath the small window, and then draped it with the linens. Beneath it, he lay down fur until it was soft and comfortable. Then he lined the wall with the cushions, and placed a pillow down. Finally, he fitted a tray in there with some of Jaskier’s favourite things; a tiny bottle of lavender oil, a jar of preserved apricots, and his travel notebook, battered and bursting with pages of story, song and poetry.

Once Yennefer had done all she could, Geralt picked Jaskier up from the mattress. He nestled him gently in the newly made cave, tucked a blanket around him, and pulled the thick linens down to give him darkness. Then he went about removing the things from under the bed; the dirty blankets, the odd assortment of items. He supposed Jaskier might want the spoon for the apricots, so he put that on the tray. Then, he hefted the mattress up, placed it on the floor, and carried the bed-frame downstairs.

When he returned, dusty, Yennefer was smiling. Geralt shrugged.

“He shouldn’t be... cowering in cobwebs, like an animal. At least now he’ll be comfortable.”

“He will.” Yennefer agreed, squeezing the witcher’s arm in assurance. “Maybe he’ll wake up and feel the love you left for him amongst the furs.”

Geralt’s face flushed. “Ciri got him to eat.” He noted, “That’s... that’s a good sign.”

“You were right. So long as she’s comfortable helping—”

“I’ll help!” Ciri bounced into the door. Both Geralt and Yennefer fixed her with a disapproving look.

“Cirilla, it’s rude to eavesdrop.” Geralt chided.

Ciri looked sheepish. “I will, though. I’ll help him get better. I can do it.”

Yennefer ran her fingers through the sweet child’s wavy hair. “We’ll talk about what to do, okay? Come on, Jaskier needs to rest.” She gave Geralt a look. “My magic will wear off in about an hour. See you downstairs.”

Geralt watched the two depart, and eagerly knelt at the table as soon as they were gone. He pulled aside the cover, and watched Jaskier doze. Gently, he ran his fingers over the line of the bard’s jaw, and tried his best not to fall apart as he thought about all the things the man had endured. Because of him.

“Come back to me, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, “come back to me and I’ll spend every day making sure you know just how important you are. If you’ll let me, I’ll make it right again. If you let me, I’ll...” His voice cracked, “I’ll love you. Please. Jaskier, fuck. I love you.”

In his sleep, Jaskier mumbled something incoherent, and nuzzled into Geralt’s soft touch. 


	3. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier awakens to comfort, and a new sense of bravery. Because maybe he fucked up, but he will protect Ciri -- from himself. Even if that means facing Geralt.

Jaskier’s awakening was slow and hazy. When Geralt had left, he’d dosed the bard with enough poppy milk so that he’d sleep comfortably, but not enough to render him insensible. Jaskier wasn’t on the bed anymore, he knew that; wherever he was felt much softer, like he was being cradled by caring arms. It was very dark, but a small sliver in the blankets let in enough sunlight that he could see his surroundings. He was pillowed by soft fur, nestled in cushions. He could smell his favourite oil.

Was he dead now? As soon as he shifted, the ache of his injuries informed him otherwise. Why had he been moved?

He chanced a peek out of the lush cave, squinting at the sunlight from the window above him, and saw that the bed frame he’d once taken refuge beneath had been removed. The mattress sat on the floor. They didn’t want him hiding there, that much was clear – but why had they gone to such an effort to make him somewhere nicer to cower?

Perhaps it was another form of control. Jaskier could not understand the logic behind it. The only conclusion he could draw was that maybe they were lowering his defenses; if he trusted them, it’d hurt more when they began the torture anew.

 _Joke’s on them,_ Jaskier thought, _I don’t trust either of them_.

He felt smug in that somehow, as if he had one-up on his captors. He’d enjoy their furs and nice smells and when Geralt punched his face so hard he’d feel his teeth rattle, he’d know it was coming. His fingertips brushed a tray, and he examined the contents of it. The oil – no, his oil. He’d been travelling with it when he was captured. A jar of apricots. Geralt knew his weakness for them. And—oh.

Reaching out with his left hand, he traced his journal. A wave of confusion washed over him. The stories inside – they were wrong, weren’t they? All the things he’d observed, all the songs he’d scrawled down, all the soft and tender moments in time – wrong. He shook as he opened the battered book, eyes darting over his own loopy handwriting. There was something written down about how Geralt had fondly told him to fuck off, and about how bright his eyes had been that day. Jaskier winced as hot shame engulfed him. How could he not have seen this coming?

As he flicked through, more and more stupid scribbles taunted him. Geralt had griped about the fact that there wasn’t enough coin for two rooms, but Jaskier had thought they’d ended up cuddling in the bed for reasons other than warmth. Geralt had left Jaskier in a tavern because Yennefer was there, but Jaskier could have sworn that there was something hesitant in the man’s departure. The more he read his own misguided, painful pining, the more foolish he felt. Geralt had told him in so many ways to leave him alone, and Jaskier had thought that was how witchers expressed affection.

No wonder Geralt had resorted to...

The last page he’d penned was blotchy with his own dried tears and spilled ink, but the words were clearly written: _If life could give me one—_

Jaskier snapped the book shut. His head hurt. He nestled back into the furs, and tried to breathe deeply, to calm the staccato rhythm of his heart. The mark on his chest ached and he remembered what he was. How mad he must have been, how blindly, stupidly in love, to register Geralt’s continuous action or inaction as friendship. And to believe that if he stayed, it’d become something more, eventually.

He’d told himself time moved differently for witchers. That for Geralt to accept Jaskier’s affections, he just needed time. And then he recalled how Yennefer had stolen his attention in one night. Their love had formed instantly. Because Yennefer was no fool. Yennefer was strong and beautiful and powerful and... worthy.

The two of them fought all the time, though. They bickered and parted on sour terms – and Jaskier would cheerfully help Geralt pick up the pieces – and then they’d meet again and start the cycle anew. Was that why he had still hoped? Why he’d turned a blind eye every time they fell into bed together?

Because he thought Geralt would have a fucking epiphany after _twenty years_ , and fall on his knees in front of Jaskier?

His heart had been so taken by romance that he’d neglected reality. The reality was that Jaskier had tried to force his love upon a man that did not want it, and as a consequence, he’d hurt the witcher. His choices and ineptitude had caused such suffering. That was not something you did to someone you loved, was it? That was slow torture.

Geralt knew much of the physical. Jaskier had inflicted his damage psychologically. Maybe that was why...

He was interrupted from his musings as the door opened. Shrinking back into the wall of cushions, he peeked through the sliver of a gap, and was relieved to see the white-blonde haired child. She had promised breakfast, and Jaskier could smell it; eggs, fried potato, and crispy sausage. His stomach snarled.

“Jaskier?” Ciri’s cheerful voice filtered into his cave, “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” Jaskier said, watching her set the tray down. She took three steps back, and sat.

“Good morning.” She smiled, although Jaskier knew she could not see him. She was dressed in play-clothes, and her shirt was already stained with something. “How did you sleep?”

“Well, thank you.” Jaskier liked the girl. She radiated a sweetness that made him feel less alone, less frightened. “And you?” Gods, even captured, Jaskier’s manners could not be tamped.

“I had bad dreams.” Ciri said, softly. She picked at the hem of her trousers. “But I often do, now.”

Jaskier’s heart ached. “Do you know what I do when I have a really bad dream?”

Ciri kept fiddling with the fabric, but she looked up again. “What?”

“I write it down. All of the bad things. And then I pick up the parchment, and I tear it into little pieces. Then I throw it in the air, like confetti, and I laugh. Even if I feel sad, I laugh at the pieces of the bad dream. Because I tore it up and it’s not real and all it’s good for is throwing around.”

The child giggled. “But then you have to sweep up the pieces!”

“Right,” Jaskier grinned, “and dump them in the rubbish, where they belong.”

Ciri nibbled her lower lip. “I like that.” She decided. “I’m going to try it.”

“You know that it’s okay to have bad dreams, right, Ciri?” Jaskier asked. “And it’s okay to be scared of them. Even adults have them. Even adults get scared.”

She considered this, and then murmured, “Everyone? Even Geralt?”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his voice steady. “Even him.” He remembered all the times he’d awoken to the witcher murmuring names from the past, tossing and turning. Jaskier had always soothed him, and Geralt had always brushed him away. Jaskier thought that he’d been embarrassed, but he knew better now.

Ciri seemed to bolster at the information, though, and that made the conversation worth it. “I brought you breakfast, like I promised.”

“Thank you very much, Ciri.” Jaskier said. He badly wanted to snatch up the tray, but he would not risk frightening her a second time. “I wouldn’t want to eat in front of you and be rude.”

Raised in nobility herself, Ciri nodded, although perhaps she was just grateful Jaskier wasn’t going to come crawling out of his cave like the wretch he was. “How are your hands feeling today?”

Jaskier wanted to snort, because there was no way a day would have made a difference, but he looked down. His knuckles were still bruised and swollen, and his right thumb and ring finger were still at wrong angles, but the rest of his digits were much improved. “They’re... actually a lot better.” He sounded as surprised as he felt.

“Yennefer said she spent most of her time healing them last night.” Ciri chirped, and Jaskier didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do with that information. “Soon you’ll be able to play again!”

“Maybe.” Jaskier winced. “Maybe if I write better songs.”

“I like your songs.” Ciri said. She’d told him as much yesterday.

“Not everyone... does.” Jaskier’s voice wavered. “And anyway, they’re silly tunes. I can do much better. When I can hold a quill, I’ll write proper songs.” 

Ciri’s brilliant emerald eyes grew sad. “I’m not supposed to say this,” Her voice dropped, “but you know Nilfgaard had you, right? You know they were lying to you?”

Jaskier frowned. “Nilfgaard wouldn’t want anything to do with me. I’m a jester.”

“You’re a bard.” Ciri tucked her legs up. “You’re Geralt’s bard.”

Jaskier felt a jolt of nausea as she said that. He wished the words were true. There was a time where he’d claim they were true. But now he knew. “I’m not Geralt’s anything, Ciri.” He corrected, hating that his voice cracked.

“They knew you walked with him and they took you because they want me. You got hurt because of me.” Her eyes filled with tears, and Jaskier had to restrain himself from crawling out of the fluffy fort to hug her.

“I got hurt because I made mistakes in my life, Ciri.” Jaskier told her, trying to keep his tone soothing. “None of this is your fault. Do you hear me? None of it.”

“You’re free now, though.” Ciri sniffed, wiping her face. “You’ll get better. Geralt said.”

Jaskier smiled sadly, knowing she couldn’t see. “Anything that happened, or will happen. You must know, Cirilla. I do not, and will not, blame you. Ever. Okay?”

Hesitantly, she bobbed her head in a nod. “Okay.” He saw the uncertainty in her eyes; promises had been made to her before, and broken. He knew that on some intrinsic level. But he hoped she understood how sincere he was.

“Good. You remember that.” He stared at the breakfast, and as much as he enjoyed the company of another kind human being, his hunger was becoming demanding. “Would it be alright if I ate, Ciri? Perhaps we could talk later.”

Ciri shuffled to her feet. “Can I bring you lunch?”

“I’d really like that.” Jaskier said. She beamed, and turned towards the door. Then she paused mid-step.

“Oh, I’m... supposed to ask. You’re allowed to say no, okay?” Her voice had taken on a nervous quality that Jaskier didn’t like. “Geralt wanted to know if he can talk to you.”

“No.” Jaskier immediately blurted, his voice half-an-octave higher. “No, um, thank you.”

“He said he will sit on the other side of the door, and keep it closed.” Ciri offered further.

 _He said a lot of things,_ Jaskier thought bitterly. Then he wondered if Ciri would be punished if he refused. He didn’t think Geralt would hurt a child, not on purpose, but was Jaskier willing to risk that? He swallowed thickly, and gathered up the threads of his courage.

“Yes, alright.” He managed to force out, “On the other side of the door. In, in an hour.” Was he allowed to make demands? It seemed so, because Ciri flashed him another smile, nodded, and then left the room. He heard her little feet pattering down the stairs.

Although his stomach was empty, the food didn’t seem all that appealing anymore. He dragged the tray closer to himself, and sipped at the orange juice. Then he picked all the crispy parts out of the potatoes. It was about all he could manage with the nerves that wrapped vice-like around his middle, and eventually he abandoned the plate, withdrawing back into the darkness.

Talking with Geralt hadn’t ended well for him recently. Maybe he wanted to hear the story again. Jaskier’s brain was frazzled, but he began to recall it in his head. Although he fought to keep the strands together, they began to drift apart as he succumbed to a brief nap, exhausted by the morning’s revelations.

* * *

“Jaskier?” A familiar voice, muffled. He stirred a little. “Jaskier, it’s me.”

“Five minutes.” Jaskier slurred. He thought he heard a small, sad chuckle, and that woke him up. Geralt was never pleased when he wanted to sleep-in on the road, and—

Well, fuck. They weren’t on the road. He felt small and cold as he remembered the promise he’d given. The door remained shut, but it was all that separated him from his captor. Still, it gave him a small sense of security, even if it was fragile.

“Sorry.” Jaskier squeaked, “Forgot... where I was.”

“That’s okay, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was different to how it usually sounded. There was a depth to it that hadn’t been present for awhile. He sounded weary, and Jaskier hated the way concern for the man tumbled to the forefront of his mind.

“You wanted to talk?” Jaskier cleared his throat, trying to push the thickness of sleep away, “Did you... want me to tell the story?”

Geralt sighed. “No, Jaskier. I just wanted to be near you. As near as you’ll let me.”

 _Weird,_ Jaskier thought. Another ploy. He was smarter than that. “Right. Love this whole plan you’ve got going, by the way. Being all nice and whatnot. Bit of a low blow to use a child, though, Geralt.”

“What?” The witcher sounded genuinely confused. And here Jaskier thought he couldn’t act for shit.

“Whatever you intend to do to me. Leave Ciri out of it. She already thinks that the things you did to me are her fault. Don’t make it worse. I don’t fucking care if you intend to break every single bone in my body again, I really don’t. I understand that I fucked up, big time. I’ll take the punishment—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice was pained.

“—however you wish to deal it. Hells, I’m not... thrilled with the idea of Yennefer doing any of it, but if you want her in on it, sure. I know I ruined your life. I get it now. Just, don’t make Ciri party to—”

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice was sharp, and Jaskier instinctively flinched, his mouth closing with a click. _Where had that burst of courage come from_ , he wondered? He felt dizzy. No matter; if Geralt knew that he knew, then perhaps he could spare Ciri from any guilt.

It was silent for a time, and then Jaskier spoke. “I should have... just listened, Geralt. Gods, the number of times you told me to fuck off, or leave you alone, and I just didn’t. You’re right. I made a mess of everything I touched. I’m a fool.”

“Don’t say that.” Geralt growled, “You’re not.”

“Odd thing for a man who carved the word into my chest to say, but alright.” Geralt killing Geralt. _Geralt killed Geralt_. Geralt standing over him, scared. Geralt standing over him, bloodied. Geralt angry, Geralt’s fists, Geralt’s whispers—

“Nilfgaard had you, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was raspy and raw. “They used enchanted rings to take on my form, Yen’s form. They thought you’d know about Ciri.”

“How and why?” Jaskier’s words were jumbled, as his head throbbed. “How would they know... the things, all the things you... Geralt, they—you—nobody could have known! Except for you!”

“Or a mage that got into your head.” Geralt said, “A Nilfgaardian mage that took your thoughts and memories and twisted them.”

_Geralt killed Geralt._

“S-so I’d tell them about your child surprise?” Jaskier’s voice was verging on panic, “That makes no sense. Why would they care about Ciri? I told you to leave her out of this!”

“Jaskier—”

“No!” Jaskier’s voice cracked, as his tears began. “No, I don’t care what you do to me. You can take away these furs and drag me back to the dungeon. I will go willingly, because I understand now, Geralt. Please, fuck, just... don’t use Ciri.”

Geralt’s low growl prickled up Jaskier’s spine. “I’d never hurt Ciri. Ever.”

“Then stop whatever it is you’re doing and just... get on with it. Go back to the knives and the whips and the hammers and—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt was begging. He’d never heard the Witcher beg. “Please. Fuck, I’m—I want to tell you how sorry I am, but I don’t even know where to fucking start. A-and I don’t, I don’t know how _._ I’m not good with... words. Not like you.”

This was very new, and Jaskier was too tired to fully pick it apart. Geralt had been so verbose in the dungeon. As the butcher, he’d had endless torments and words. And now it seemed he was stunted again. Had he truly underestimated the witcher’s talent for the arts? Or was he... had Jaskier really been captured by Nilfgaard?

_Geralt killed Geralt._

He ached, and he was hungry, and he didn’t understand. He’d thought himself clever, seeing their ploys and plots, but now it was warping into something that didn’t scan. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. _Fool_ , the viper slithered through his mind, _fool, fool, fool._

“Go away.” He finally decided, “And, and, if you are to feed me,” Gods, perhaps he’d regret this, “You do it yourself.”

Geralt grunted. “I’d... have to come into the room, to do that.”

“Fine.”Jaskier bit out, “Just stop hiding behind that poor girl.”

There was silence for a long time, and then he heard Geralt’s footfalls as he walked away. He knew the witcher could be silent as a cat, and therefore the sound was made for his benefit. He was too exhausted to understand why; all he clung to, in the brief moments before he slipped unconscious again, was that he could spare Cirilla from his wretched curse. And he would.

Even if he had to relive the dungeon, he’d protect that girl.


	4. The Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Jaskier heals, he questions more of his memories. Geralt tells Jaskier a side of the story he hasn't heard before.

A rude intrusion of sunlight woke Jaskier from his slumber, and he blinked as the covers of his fortress were tugged aside. He didn’t have time to ponder why before a rough pair of hands were on his shoulders, gripping and dragging him from the comfort of the furs. His instinctive reaction was to fight, but the hold was strong, and he found himself pinned on the hard floorboards easily.

Geralt leered down at him. “Wake up, sunshine.” He crooned, a large hand patting Jaskier’s cheek.

“I’m awake, fuck—” Jaskier wheezed, his gaze darting in panic to the door. Yennefer was standing there, gorgeously composed as ever, watching with amusement curled cobra-like at the corners of her lips. “What are you--?”

“Shut up.” Geralt said, applying enough pressure at the fractures on Jaskier’s ribs to make him flinch and whimper. “Watching you cower under a table is boring. Yen thought up something much more interesting for us to do.”

 _Placate him_ , Jaskier thought in desperation. “I c-can write, write songs. My fingers are getting better. I’ll write whatever you like! A b-ballad, about a jester and... and a hero, a real story—”

“I hate your fucking songs,” Geralt spat, “And I hate your simpering.”

“You would be good for spell practice, though.” Yennefer purred, slinking over. “Tell me, bard. How long do you think you’ll stay conscious under my hand?”

“No,” Jaskier pleaded, tears budding in his eyes, “No no no, don’t touch me, you can’t, y-you said you, th-that Geralt—Geralt wanted this, you said—”

“Make him stop whining, darling.” Yennefer asked of Geralt.

Jaskier watched as they kissed above him, feeling the crushing pressure of Geralt’s thumbs on his trachea, strangling the air from him.

* * *

Jaskier awoke gasping in the dark, beaded with sweat, trembling bodily. He could taste the faint copper of blood, feel his pulse in the back of his throat. With caution, he peeked out the gap in the blankets.

It was dark. There was a tray of food; meat, cheese and bread, as well as a single flower in a tiny vase. A tulip. Either Ciri or Geralt had come and gone. Jaskier hoped the Witcher was making good on his promise. It was more likely he’d left the meal, considering how quiet he could be on his feet.

The nightmare clung to the front of Jaskier’s mind like sticky strands of spiderweb. He eyed the food with distrust, wishing he could scent it for poisons. Because he’d more or less skipped breakfast, however, his stomach ultimately vetoed him, and he pulled the tray close. When he lifted the wedge of fresh bread, he saw a note beneath, penned in Geralt’s handwriting.

_You were deeply asleep, and I did not wish to frighten you awake. I’m sorry. I did not ask Ciri to bring the meal, as you requested. – Geralt_

It was sweet, somehow, in a stilted way. Jaskier’s fingertips lingered over the letters, before he caught himself. Another trap? Geralt didn’t like him. Absently, he touched his throat, recalling the feeling of Geralt’s hands around his neck.

It felt familiar because it had happened. In the cell. Hadn’t it?

Jaskier slaked his thirst first, drinking the weak ale. Then he began to eat the bread and cheese, rolling thoughts over in his mind. If this was a ploy to get him to lower his guard, it was an awfully elaborate one, and it involved a child. Even if Geralt truly despised him – and Jaskier suspected that he did – the witcher would not subject an innocent girl to the darkness of revenge. Certainly not his own child surprise.

Both Ciri and Geralt had mentioned Nilfgaard. Yennefer had said something of it, too – that she’d seen into his mind. Jaskier picked up Geralt’s note, and carefully tucked it into his journal. Even if it was a lie, he wanted to cling to the kindness of it.

 _Because you’re a fool,_ a voice in his mind sneered, _a lovesick fool._

“Yeah, maybe I am.” Jaskier answered the voice out-loud, uncaring how mad it made him sound, “But I’d rather have lived my life in love than in regret.”

As he said it, he realised it was true. Geralt might have wanted him out of his life on more than one occasion, but Jaskier couldn’t find it within himself to wish he’d obeyed – sooner than the incident on the mountain, at least. Twenty years of love and care, unreciprocated. Yes, that hurt. But there was an honesty to it that Jaskier was proud of. He’d been there to mend the witcher’s wounds, to pay for food, to plait Roach’s mane into neat braids. Nobody else was there.

A fool in love alone, but now Jaskier began to realise that his intentions weren’t selfish. Not like he’d been made to believe recently. His love was not selfish. His love was blistered toes and rain-soaked cloaks. His love was a voice strained hoarse from singing for coin. His love for Geralt had no ulterior motive.

The thought made him feel invincible. Geralt could cast him away again, but Jaskier would survive. He’d chosen to give his affection. Now, he would choose to endure.

As he finished the last of his meal, he looked at his journal again. Not all of the stories were true. Some of them were embellished, mostly to make either himself or the Witcher appear braver and bolder. Good ballads required a slight tweaking of facts, Jaskier thought. Now he wondered about the story he’d been forced to tell, and the story written in his own ink.

The true tale had never been told – not in words or writing.

Jaskier’s body ached, the worst of his injuries throbbing insistently, but he did his best to block the pain as he made himself comfortable on the furs again. He laid down, and thought about the bare bones of the story. Perhaps when he had a quill, he’d add flesh.

* * *

“It’s nothing you did wrong.” Yennefer tried to comfort Ciri for the third time that day. The girl was inconsolably distressed after being banned from visiting Jaskier. Geralt rubbed small circles against her back as she sobbed into her pillow.

“I scared him!” Ciri hiccupped, “I must have scared him.”

“No.” Geralt said, “He’s very sick, Ciri. He’s worried that...” He looked up, trading a glance with Yen. How was one supposed to explain torture trauma to a child?

“He thinks we’re lying to him and using you as a distraction, little lion.” Yennefer soothed.

“I don’t understand.” Ciri’s weeping was quietening. She was tired from the events of the day. Carefully, Geralt covered her in a blanket, although he didn’t move from her side.

“You did really well, Cirilla.” Geralt whispered, “I’m proud of you. Jaskier is going to be okay. When he feels better, I think you’re the first person he’ll want to see.”

Ciri made a whimper, but didn’t have the strength to pursue the statement. Her red-rimmed eyelids drooped, and she fell into an exhausted sleep. Geralt remained beside her until she was deep enough in slumber that she would not miss his presence, and then he crept from the room. He kept the door ajar so Yennefer could hear her calling, if necessary.

Yen was sat at the kitchen table, making more tea. Geralt picked up a hunk of salted pork, poured some ale, and seated himself too. For a moment, they remained in silence, joined by fatigue and duty.

“I’ll go up and see him in a moment.” Yennefer offered, “I haven’t the strength to heal him further today, but I can dress his remaining wounds.”

“I’ll go.” Geralt sighed, “I promised him I would face him. I hope he’ll let me see the bandages without having to resort to axii.”

Yennefer squeezed his arm. “The finger and thumb on his right hand – the bone has already set. I think we should wait before we see about healing those.”

“Hmm.” Geralt agreed, washing down a mouthful of pork with the last of his drink. He put his hand over Yen’s. “I’m glad you’re here with us.”

“You’d be so very, very dead without me. I know.” Yennefer’s smile was pretty, albeit weary. “I am glad to be able to help. I just wish...”

Geralt’s hand tightened. “You’ll hear from Triss, Yen. You will.”

Yennefer bit her lower lip and nodded, silent. As she sipped her tea, Geralt rose. He looked at the stairs like they lead to a noose, not to an attic bedroom. Keeping his footfalls audible, he climbed.

* * *

Jaskier was floating in the place between awake and asleep, the ache of his leg in particular not quite letting him drift back under. He heard footsteps approaching, and adrenaline shot through his veins in a trained response. Trying to breathe through the panic, he glared at the door. There was a knock.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice. “It’s me. May I come in?”

As if Jaskier could stop him. “What if I say no?”

Geralt sighed. “Then I’ll use my sad voice and hope it works.”

Jaskier almost laughed, because he knew the voice Geralt was referring to. It was used very rarely, and only as a means of making Jaskier compliant. He’d last used it to force Jaskier to stay behind at camp with Roach, because the cockatrice he was hunting was savage, and Geralt had been worried about the bard’s lack of self-preservation.

Something hummed in the back of Jaskier’s mind at that memory. The softness of Geralt’s eyes. The exaggerated pout he’d pulled. The way he resorted to silliness, because it kept Jaskier safe.

 _Geralt killed Geralt_.

Shaking his head as if the action could clear it, Jaskier relented. “Come in. Light the candle on the mantle."

The door opened slowly, and Geralt appeared. He looked different to how Jaskier remembered, although even the sight of him made something instinctive coil tighter in his belly. He remained still within his cave, examining the witcher through the slender gap. As instructed, he lit the candle.

Jaskier saw the sag of his shoulders and the dark smudge of fatigue beneath his eyes. Those were new. His clothes were, too; gone was his armour, replaced by dark house-clothing. His hair needed brushing. Now that his mind was clearer, Jaskier found it difficult to reconcile the two Geralts in his mind; the one that wanted to skin him alive, and this one that he couldn’t quite figure out yet.

“What do you want?” Jaskier asked, trying to sound brave.

“The poppy milk will be out of your system by now.” Geralt said. “I wanted to see how badly you’re hurting.”

“I’m fine.” Jaskier said, quickly.

“I can smell the pain on you, Jaskier.” Geralt murmured.

Stupid witcher senses. “Yes, alright, my leg is bothering me. But I’ve had worse.” Jaskier wanted to say ‘you’ve done worse’, but he caught himself. He didn’t know if that was the truth anymore, and if it was – well, angering Geralt wouldn’t play out well for him.

“I know it’s asking a lot,” Geralt’s voice was still low, “But I’d like to check on your stitches, if you’d let me. Before, I used one of my signs to relax your mind. I’ve never used it on you, and I don’t want to use it without your permission, if I can avoid it.”

So that’s what that was, Jaskier realised. Then the gravity of the request hit him, and he felt his throat go dry. He remembered his dream – Geralt’s hands on him, pulling him – and he wondered if it was prophetic.

“My stitches are fine.” Jaskier replied, tightly. “I’ll just take the poppy milk, please.”

Geralt grunted. Jaskier braced himself, waiting for the blankets to be tossed aside. Instead, the witcher sat at the other end of the room, using the wall as a support to lean against.

“Yen says that they made you tell our story over and over until it was twisted and mangled, trying to find Ciri’s location.” Geralt said. Jaskier shivered, hoping it would not be asked of him again. “I was wondering if... you’d like to hear the story, from me.”

Jaskier flinched. “What?”

“They made it into something rotten and filthy. I don’t want you to tell me exactly what, because I’ll... _fuck_. I killed the sons-of-whores that were holding you, Jaskier, but I want to go back there a-and,” Geralt clenched his fists, “drive my silver blade into their skulls, and burn that whole fucking village to the ground. Because they were monsters. I’ve never wanted revenge until... until I saw what they did to you.”

No revenge? Jaskier had never heard Geralt so verbose, but it suited him somehow. The way he stopped and started, unsure of himself. The growl in his low tone. Jaskier closed his eyes and gathered his courage before he asked his question.

“They had me, didn’t they? Nilfgaard.”

Geralt’s breath hitched. “Yes.”

“Why did you come for me? After what you’d said. Nilfgaard would have given you your blessing, you know.”

“I hate myself every day for the venom I spat at you, Jaskier. After I drove you away, it was so quiet. Roach was mad at me. Everything was miserable. And then Cintra fell, and I had to be there for Ciri. When I heard whispers about Nilfgaard looking for you, I entrusted Yennefer with Ciri, in this safehouse.” Geralt was staring at the floor.

“And Yennefer just forgave you? After the dragon hunt?” Jaskier sounded rightfully skeptical.

“Fuck no.” Geralt snorted, “She did it for Ciri. And for you, Jaskier. She said, and I quote, ‘ _you find that feisty bastard bard and you bring him back_ ’. I don’t quite think she’s forgiven me, yet. Not completely.”

“Well, the course of true love, et cetera.” Jaskier mused, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. If this was a new form of torture, at least it didn’t involve kicking his skull in. He wanted to prolong it. “You said something about a story?”

“I did.” Geralt muttered, “If you would hear it.”

Jaskier remained silent in his cave. Geralt looked so very vulnerable. It was almost fascinating to watch. The witcher cleared his throat.

“I was walking The Path. Found myself drinking in a corner in a tavern. Not unusual. What was unusual was the bard playing. He had a nice voice, but his song was nonsense. I thought little of it, until he approached me. He was... so young. And oddly, he didn’t reek of fear and disgust, like so many humans do when I am around. He smelled curious, like he really wanted my company. So I did – as Yen tells me – what I do best, which is push good things away.”

It was bizarre to hear their story from the witcher’s point of view. It sounded raw and honest, and although he called Jaskier’s song nonsense, he didn’t call Jaskier a _fool_. He was too scared to make a noise, in case Geralt would stop talking.

“This bard followed me into danger, and screamed in my defense when I was bound and struck. When we escaped, he followed me still. He sung again, but his song was... kind. I did not understand why. The first time we parted ways, I told Roach that I was glad for the peace. When she snorted at me, I realised she was right. It was too quiet.

The next time I met the bard was two years later. He was as I remembered him; fearless, smiling. Warm. That year, we walked The Path together right up until winter. He tested me in almost every way, pushing when he should have been pulling, seeing how much it took to rile me up, I think. I told him to fuck off more times than I can count, but I never meant it. I think... I _hope_ he knew that, because he was always there in the morning.”

Jaskier made a soft noise, frowning. The words warred within him, clashing with flashes of what he’d been told by another Geralt. But still he said nothing.

“That winter,” Geralt continued, “I told my brother, Eskel, about him. He said I had a valuable companion in the bard. I said I had a pain in my arse, but I-I don’t know why I said that. I spent the months training, and again it was too quiet. The bard, I was starting to realise – he made me feel less like... a monster. More human.”

Jaskier almost blurted out a chastising remark, hating it when Geralt referred to himself as sub-human, but he bit his tongue. He would not be baited. “Then what?” He said, instead.

Geralt’s lips curved into a small smile. He continued their story, but where Jaskier had been pressed before, Geralt did not linger. He spoke of the child surprise with irritation and confusion, but it was self-directed. When he spoke of the djinn, his voice sounded so weak that Jaskier couldn’t help but ache. The witcher painted a picture of two men – one, a spark of sunshine, and the other a grouchy bastard, pitted against a strange and cruel world. He remarked upon how his life had become easier after Jaskier’s ballad became popular. He remembered all the times Jaskier had soothed his wounds, or given up food. This Geralt had noticed everything.

“And then, at the top of a mountain, I let a wave of anger crash over the bard with no mercy. I wanted to be alone, to grieve the mistakes I’d made, and to protect anyone else from falling victim to my poisons. I watched the light in the bard’s eyes dim, and when the sun set that day, it didn’t rise again. Because I’d snuffed it out.” Geralt’s gravel-rough voice was raspy from talking, and he breathed a sigh. “That’s the real story, Jaskier. I hurt you, and you’re hurt now because of me. And I’d give anything to take it back.”

Jaskier’s cheeks were wet with tears he didn’t know he’d been crying. It was so much – too much – and so he sniffled, and wiped his face. He wanted a deep, dreamless sleep. He needed to think.

“I’d like milk to sleep now, please,” Jaskier whispered, “you can see to my bandages when I am out, if you’d like.”

It wasn’t quite trust, but it was closer than before. Geralt simply nodded and rose, reaching for a vial of medicine. He measured it out, dripped the strong opiate into a cup of water, and placed it at the crack in the blankets. A hand darted out – the left, fingers better set – and took it. 

Geralt waited until he heard his bard’s breathing even out, and his heart-rate slow. Then he gently peeled the blankets back, watching Jaskier sleep. Quickly, he got to work with the dressings that needed changing.

“It’s not the whole story, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, feeling safe in the candlelit room, “I didn’t tell you about how the witcher fell in love with the bard, over the years. About how he held it back and denied it because he was scared. But I promise... I’ll tell you. When you’re ready, I’ll tell you.”

That night, there were no dream-hands around his neck. Jaskier slept in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware I fuck around with the timeline a bit -- cramming too much into too short a space -- but eh, that's fic writing, babeyy! Obviously this is not canon compliant.


	5. Certainties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier continues to work on dividing truth from lies. Gradually, he starts to recognise that he knows some facts with certainty. Unfortunately, he can't trust others.

Jaskier awoke with the dawn, in the sleepy wash of space before the intrusion of reality. The first thing he noted was that some of his bandages were gone; the wounds beneath were stitched, but healing well. The poppy-milk from the night still clung to the edges of his mind, lending a softness to his memories that allowed him to browse through them without fear.

He tried to place the events of the day before in order. Yennefer and Geralt kissing. The filmy nature of the image in his mind’s eye made him re-examine it, and he remembered the nightmare.

“Just a dream.” He said, as a way of keeping score and of soothing himself.

After that, he’d eaten and read his journal. The stories. His songs. He cast an eye over at the book now, sitting benignly on that little tray. More sleep, and then—

Sad voice. Geralt. A story, almost familiar, and yet somehow not quite within his capacity to believe.

“What would he have to gain from lying about the story?” Jaskier found speaking grounding. It was often said that only insane people spoke to themselves, but Jaskier had always indulged in the habit. He had so many thoughts and ideas that they burst from him when there was no quill to hand.

Maybe he’d always been a little mad. Maybe Nilfgaard knew that. If they had a mage, as both Geralt and Yennefer had said...

Jaskier’s trust could be gained with lies, perhaps. But then again, he imagined this ruse far, far too elaborate for Geralt to waste his time on. The Geralt he’d known for over two decades was efficient, smart, and direct. He’d never wavered from that. Kidnapping Jaskier and torturing him was one thing, but to go to this length to put him back together?

And again, he thought of Cirilla. Butcher or not, he refused to believe that Geralt would harm the princess. So why did unease still crawl in the pit of his stomach?

 _The story_ , he thought. It was fond. Longing, almost. Geralt was no poet, but the way he remembered their adventures as he’d spoken had been so removed from the Geralt that would tell him to fuck off, or shut up, or groan resentfully every time he made an obnoxious mistake.

In the dungeon, _that_ Geralt had dug fingers into every error Jaskier had ever made, rending them into wounds. It had been easy for Jaskier to believe _that_ Geralt’s ire, because there was no force in the world that could remove his memory of the mountaintop. This Geralt – the one that used sad voice, the one that saw to his wounds – he cared about Jaskier. He’d apologised.

Geralt of Rivia didn’t apologise. Not to Jaskier. The two realities grated upon one another until Jaskier felt the familiar throb of a headache threaten, and then he slumped back into the furs.

“What are you certain of, Jaskier?” He asked himself.

That was a good place to start. He was certain that he was alive. He was certain he had been tortured. He was certain that the torture revolved around Geralt in some way. He was certain that he occupied a house with the witcher, Yennefer, and Princess Cirilla. He was certain that he was healing, bodily.

It was enough for now. It was more assurance than he’d had in a long time. As the sun rose, he let his eyes close, content to simply drift.

* * *

In his semi-conscious state, Jaskier was alerted to Geralt’s heavy feet on the stairs before he reached the door. Instinct tried to pull him back against the wall into a cower, but he actively fought it, ignoring the tremors as he laid still. There was a knock.

“Jaskier? It’s me. I have breakfast.” Geralt’s low voice rumbled through the wood.

“Come in.” Jaskier said, and the door opened. Geralt looked much the same as the night before, at least facially; exhausted, worried. He was dressed in clean clothes, and his hair was pulled back into the kind of braid that a young princess might be responsible for.

“Where should I set it?” Geralt asked.

“Floor.” Jaskier instructed, purposefully icy. He watched for any reaction from Geralt regarding his poor manners, but didn’t see any. The tray was placed down.

“Can I get you anything else?” Geralt stared at the sliver of a gap in the blankets, and for a moment, their eyes connected. Jaskier’s heart stuttered, and he pulled the covers shut.

“You look like shit.” Jaskier growled. “Is Yennefer not letting you sleep?”

“She sleeps as little as I do.” Geralt’s voice sounded sad.

“I’ll bet.” Jaskier scoffed, hating the bitterness that clung to his tongue like a film.

“It’s only because—”

“A bath.” Jaskier interrupted, “Bring me a tub and water, and if there is any, soap.” Gods, he didn’t want to hear about how they kept one another awake. Not right now.

“We’ve been keeping you clean,” Geralt hesitated, “You’ll need to keep your knee straight, and out of the water.”

“I can do that.” Jaskier said. “I can follow instructions. Jaskier, get firewood. Jaskier, don’t touch Roach. Jaskier, you’re responsible for my life’s burdens, get the fuck out of my life. Followed all of ‘em, didn’t I?” Somewhere, he felt he was being a little unfair, but the words tumbled out one after another until he was panting with the outburst.

For a moment, there was silence. And then, softly, “I will get the tub and draw the water.”

He heard Geralt leave, and waited before chancing a peek through the blanket. He looked over the tray; there was a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs and a crunchy sourdough roll. There was also that little vase again, this time hosting a single violet. Beneath it, another letter in Geralt’s hand.

_Good morning, Jaskier. Just in case you’re asleep, I wrote this. I hope to speak with you. I hope you slept well. – Geralt_

Jaskier felt guilty for snapping at the witcher. Then he felt angry for feeling guilty. Finally, he stuffed the note into his journal, and began devouring his breakfast. He barely tasted the food, stabbing the eggs with his fork, too entangled with his thoughts to enjoy them.

He heard Geralt enter with the tub, heard him filling it with bucket after bucket of water that he toted up the stairs, but he didn’t look through the gap again. And he didn’t say a word. The witcher worked in silence.

After the last bucket was poured, he heard sloshing, and knew that Geralt was using a sign to heat the bath. The fragrance of lavender and roses hit him; too cloying for a witcher’s nose, but heavenly to Jaskier’s. If they’d been sharing an inn room, there was no chance he’d get away with adding so much perfume without complaint.

“Can I stay and help?” Geralt spoke, his question gentle.

Jaskier thought about it. He wanted to express gratitude for the bath and the note, but he considered being naked and vulnerable in the same room as Geralt, and shuddered. Not now. Not yet.

And it was an opportunity to further push this Geralt.

“No.” Jaskier ordered. “Go away. When you bring food again, bring me a quill and ink.”

He heard Geralt’s sigh, and tensed, preparing to be shouted at. Waiting for hands to grab him and drag him from his den. For some manner of retribution or punishment.

Instead, Geralt hummed – such a familiar sound – and left the room.

Jaskier peeked out of the blankets, astonished, and waited. Nobody came back. Hesitantly, he began to drag himself out of his fort, blinking at the sunlight. He managed to push himself up so he was balancing on his good leg, and he looked over at the tub.

Rose petals floated on the surface, reds and pinks and yellows. There was a stool for him to rest his leg on. Sheets to dry himself, as well as fresh bandages. A clean sleep-shirt; Jaskier recognised it as one of Geralt’s. And oh – soap, and a washcloth. They were placed atop the stool, weighing down another note.

Jaskier’s fingers trembled as he picked it up.

_In case you did not want me in the room; there’s a part in our story I remember often. You bathed me before Pavetta’s ball, and I was tired after the hunt and wanted nothing more than to sleep. At least I thought I did, until you asked me to guard you. Jaskier, your eyes were so blue. You smelled like the fresh apples you’d snuck to Roach. You asked me if I wanted anything, and you were right there. Like you always were._

_I do need you, Jaskier. I always will. – Geralt_

Jaskier read and re-read the note until the letters blurred together with his tears, and then he placed it aside where it would not be damaged by the water. Methodically, he stripped, unrolling his bandages. It was difficult to get into the water alone and not further injure his knee, but he managed.

The water was lovely and fragrant, although his exposed wounds stung. But he found it hard to appreciate the warmth, or even the roses. He scrubbed his hair twice, and worked over his skin carefully. The petals stuck to his chest, obscuring the word carved there, and he was grateful.

He could only dare to hope that he was safe. That Geralt and Yennefer had not truly tortured him. He was in a place that he could rest and recover, and eventually bid the trio farewell when he was able. Nothing more than that. He refused.

If he thought Geralt’s kind gestures were deeper than just gestures, then he truly was a fool.


	6. The F Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes great strides with his healing. A friend joins their little group. Jaskier is given a choice to make about his future with Geralt.

When Geralt brought him dinner, Jaskier ordered him to leave it on the other side of the door. He kept an aloof authority about his voice, and strained his ears for a tell-tale growl or a grunt of disapproval. Nothing. His request was granted, and he heard Geralt’s footsteps retreat.

He ventured out of the blankets, clean and freshly-bandaged, and fetched the tray. Dinner consisted of a meat pie, as well as more fresh juice. There was poppy milk if he wanted it. As he’d requested, there was also a stack of parchment and ink.

Jaskier disliked the eagerness with which he rifled through the paper for a note from Geralt. He disliked the disappointment that settled in his stomach upon finding none even more. Dragging the tray back to his cave was unwieldy, and he eyed the mattress on the floor with a tinge of bravery. If he was safe, he needn’t hide. And if coming out from the table brought danger upon him, he’d have proof of his paranoid theories. Either way, he didn’t want to live in the darkness any longer.

It took some time to rearrange things, but in time he had a new place to rest; it was laden with the soft furs, and the tray sat nearby. Now he had the advantage of more light from the window, as well as lanterns or candles. He ate his dinner, considered his journal, and realised that he was too exhausted to parse any further revelations that evening. Without dipping into the pain relief – his knee throbbed, but he could bear it – he fell asleep atop the mattress, exposed.

* * *

“Oh.” A feminine voice roused Jaskier from slumber, mere hours later. “You’ve moved.”

Jaskier opened his eyes to meet the violet of Yennefer’s gaze. She was dressed in a simple black frock, elegant without being overstated. She stood a respectable distance away at the door.

“I figured that a table would hardly stop you, if you intended to peel my skin from my flesh again.” Jaskier told her, voice rough with sleep.

Yen smiled. “Strange as it is, that’s actually a very cogent observation. It tells me your mind is healing. If you were still stuck in a mindset of fear, you’d be craving a smaller space, more darkness. Your animalistic mind would take over. But you’re rationalising things.” 

“I’m not as dumb as I look.” Jaskier muttered, even as the sentiment made something malignant twist in his cerebrum. _Fool!_

“I never thought you stupid, Jaskier.” Yennefer clasped her hands together. “I don’t suffer idiots. If I thought you beneath me, I doubt we’d ever have spoken at all.”

She spoke honestly, as always. Jaskier had to admire her bearing. She was so powerful and strong; she was a fearsome woman, every bit Geralt’s equal. Could he really hate her for that? If he loved Geralt, wouldn’t he want the best for him?

Even if the best was not Jaskier?

“I poked fun at you,” Jaskier admitted, “because I was jealous. You’d appear, and Geralt would dump me by the roadside.” He felt a twist of panic as he attempted to clarify. “Because he was my friend—er, I mean, my...” A frown. “He was important. But I, above anyone else, understand the urgency of love.”

“You know that was the djinn, right?” Yennefer’s voice turned soft, saddened. “It bound us. Geralt is very dear to me—”

“Stop.” Jaskier held up his hand. “Please, I—I can’t think on it all. Not right now. Just know that I wish you no ill-will. If, indeed, my mind is healing like my body – then I suppose I owe you a great debt, actually.”

Yennefer stepped closer and sat on the stool beside the bath, the water long-cold. “Services for friends can’t be counted as debts.” She said kindly, and then sighed. “I have healed you as best I am able, save for one part.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Your fingers. They’ve healed at the wrong angle. Like this, you won’t play again.”

Jaskier held up his right hand, and regarded the two twisted digits. He bit his lip. “I suppose it would be rather tricky, yes.”

“I came to offer you a choice. The sooner they are re-broken and set correctly, the better. I can do it, but it will hurt, and I worry that the pain might trigger some of that fear in you again. I don’t want you to feel less safe, or relapse. The other option is to wait until we can find another party, another healer.” Yen spoke calmly. “It’s your choice, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s heart rabbited in his chest. The primal parts of him seized onto the word _break_ , and coupled with Yennefer’s gaze, it was almost enough to make him sick. But then he thought of his lute. He looked down at his left hand – the one that was healing well – and knew he’d do almost anything to be able to play again.

“How much will it hurt?” Jaskier whispered.

Yen’s eyebrows knitted together. “Quite a bit. I won’t lie to you, Jaskier.”

“Can I take poppy milk?”

“Only after the procedure. I need you lucid, so I can line the bone properly. If you’re half-asleep and drooling, I run the risk of a mistake. And I won’t play fast and loose with your fingers.” She sounded so sincere. Jaskier couldn’t see the benefit in lying; she’d even given him a choice. He could just say no.

But she’d also said the sooner the better.

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.” He tried to keep his tone even, but it was pitched slightly higher.

“Wait.” Geralt’s voice. The witcher appeared in the doorway, waiting outside the threshold. He didn’t come closer. Jaskier raked his gaze over him, and then looked away.

“Yes?” The bard acknowledged.

“You’re... you’re up. I mean, out of the shelter.” Geralt sounded relieved. “I’m glad.”

“Bath needs draining.” Jaskier snipped.

“I’ll get to it in a moment.” Geralt didn’t even flinch at the order. Interesting. “I came to offer my service.”

“Having both of us here whilst I reset bone is not a good idea, Geralt.” Yennefer said.

“If you run his pain through me, I could take the shock of the break.” The witcher replied. “I’d stay as far away as you needed. But he’d feel nothing; just the ache after.”

Yennefer considered this. “That shouldn’t take much of my power. Jaskier, what say you?”

Jaskier’s eyes were wide. As he understood it, Yen would break his fingers to reset them, but Geralt would feel the pain of the break instead of him. “Why?” He squeaked.

“You’ve endured enough.” Geralt’s voice was rough. “I can bear this small thing, for you.”

That didn’t make sense to Jaskier. But some sick part of his mind wanted it. He wanted Geralt to feel pain, to suffer as he had. Before he could stop himself, he nodded at Yennefer. “Do it.”

She wasn’t one to tarry around with second-guessing. Exchanging a glance with Geralt was enough for her feelings on the matter to be known – that she wished they’d communicate further – but it was not her choice. Yennefer approached Jaskier, settling gently at the side of his bed. She had splints, salves and bandages with her.

“Geralt, you sit behind me. Put your hand on my shoulder, but come no closer. Understand?”

The witcher nodded, and shuffled into position. Jaskier had a direct view of the open door – a clear exit. He was starting to understand that everything was being done – indeed, everything had been done – with a purpose. Shaking, he presented his crooked hand.

Yen began to palpate the digits, examining carefully. Jaskier prepared himself for the ache of it, but he felt nothing. He noticed Geralt’s jaw tighten.

“I’m going to start with your thumb, and then move onto your ring finger. It’s not going to sound pretty, but you won’t feel any pain. Okay?” Yennefer locked eyes with Jaskier, seeking permission. 

He nodded once, and held his breath. Firmly, she jerked the digit, and there was an audible _crack_. Geralt bit off a small grunt, and the sound went straight to Jaskier’s heart. As Yen began to line up the bone correctly, working diligently, he watched the witcher’s features. Solemn, stern; only a man who had traveled with him for more than twenty years would see the discomfort.

Yennefer finished bandaging the splint securely. His thumb now looked less mutated, albeit wrapped in gauze. It was so odd; he felt nothing at all.

“Ring now?” Yen asked, and Jaskier shook his head.

“Wait.” He whispered. Two pairs of eyes looked at him with concern. “I don’t want Geralt... to have to feel this.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, “It’s nothing for me, I swear it. Let me carry this.”

“No. I won’t hurt you of my accord.” Jaskier's seaside-blue eyes shone with tears. “I am sorry for the thumb. I should not have let you.”

“Jaskier—”

“I think he should make his own choices, don’t you, Geralt?” Yennefer interrupted smoothly. “He suffered the break before and survived. He’s stronger than you think.”

Geralt made a low growl of irritation and gripped Yen’s shoulder tighter.

“I choose where the magic goes.” She reminded the witcher, “You can squeeze all you like. It’s up to Jaskier.”

Jaskier held out his hand again. “I can take it.”

Yen smiled softly. “I know.” She squeezed along his finger, and he felt the ache of both his recently broken thumb, and the prodding. Geralt looked absolutely mournful, taking a step back, giving them space. Carefully, he began to clear the bath away.

He was downstairs, emptying the water, when he heard Jaskier’s shout of pain. Even though they were no longer tied by Yennefer, Geralt swore he felt it. He whimpered, and propped the bath against the side of the house to dry.

Upstairs, Jaskier cursed as Yen bandaged his ring finger to his middle with a splint. Fuck, it had hurt, but now the acute pain was fading into something dull and manageable. Yennefer tied the bandage off.

“There.” She said. “They will probably ache on cold days once healed, but you’ll play again, Jaskier.”

“Thank you.” He murmured, meeting her eyes. “For giving me a choice. For...”

“You’re a funny little bard.” She smiled, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Geralt would be lost without you. Drink.” A glass was pushed into his left hand. He swallowed the water, tasting the familiar bitter pain-relief.

“Geralt would be lots of things without me, but lost isn’t a word that comes to mind.” Jaskier said.

“You underestimate yourself, Jaskier. Rest, now. Your sleep should be comfortable.”

Blearily, he watched Yennefer exit with a sweep of her skirts, dimming the lantern as she went. The door began to close. The last thing he saw before he fell into a cotton-wool opiate sleep was a pair of concerned honey eyes, hovering atop the stairs.

* * *

“That went well.” Yennefer said, sat at the dinner table. Her xenovox was in front of her, as ever. 

“It should have gone better.” Geralt grouched. “You should have let me take the pain. All of it.”

“Beating yourself up for this – however you choose to do it – won’t help Jaskier.” Yennefer pointed out. “He needs your words, not your masochism.”

“I don’t know how... to tell him.” Geralt admitted, taking a mouthful of ale. “I got lost in the wash of time, Yen. I forgot how long twenty years is to a human. I think back at the way I treated him – even before that fucking mountain – and, fuck. It’s no wonder he believed Nilfgaard so readily.”

Yen hummed. “He knows witchers feel things differently. He just needs to remember.”

“Still can’t believe you forgave me.” Geralt sunk his head into his hands. “We’re nothing without you, Yennefer.”

“Oh, I know.” She grinned, all gleaming ivory, “When the situation is less turbulent, I am sure I’ll find ways to subject you to—”

Her xenovox lit up. It was weak, but the reddish light shone through the stone. Yennefer snatched it, sparing Geralt the barest glance. He nodded, and with haste, she ran out the front. At the same time, Ciri stirred in her sleep. Another nightmare. Geralt rose to see to her.

Breathlessly, Yennefer waited to hear a voice. She prayed to every god that might listen, holding the object to her ears. After a few moments of eternity, a voice filtered through.

“ _Yen_ ,” Triss’ words were slightly garbled, “ _I’m safe. Brugge, in lower Sodden. Come if you can._ ”

Tears sprung to her eyes. Without informing Geralt, she opened a portal. She stepped through it without delay.

“What was that?” Ciri hiccupped, hearing the magic hum outside. She clung to Geralt’s shirt in fear.

“Yen’s leaving to fetch a friend, little lion.” Geralt soothed. “How would you feel about having two mothers?”

Ciri’s eyes were wide. “And two fathers?”

Geralt swallowed thickly. “I really hope so. I haven’t asked Jaskier if he will come to Kaer Morhen with us, yet. He still needs time to recover.”

Ciri lowered her gaze. “Is he still mad at me?”

“We talked about this, remember?” Geralt hooked his finger under her chin. “No one is mad at you. None of this is your fault.”

She sniffled. “Jaskier said... that when I have a nightmare, I should write it down. And then, then tear it up. That way, I’m showing the nightmare who’s boss.”

Sounded like something Jaskier would say, Geralt thought, his chest aching. So simple, and yet so fitting. “Well, that sounds like smart advice. Would you like some parchment?”

She nodded. He went over to the small desk in her room, and picked up some, as well as a stick of charcoal. Busily, she began to scrawl.

“If I’m to have two mothers, where will you sleep?” Ciri asked. “Is she nice?”

Geralt smiled. “Out with Roach, I suppose. Or on your floor, if you’ll have me. And yes, Triss Merigold is very nice.”

Ciri’s nose wrinkled. “Do you snore?”

“Like a bear caught in a windstorm.” Geralt’s features were solemn.

“Ugh!” She huffed, and then eyed him. “...I won’t make you sleep outside, but if you snore, I’m allowed to kick you.”

Geralt chuckled. “Deal.”

The sound of the portal reopening drew their attention, and Geralt rose, cautiously making his way over to the door. He saw Yennefer exit with Triss, who was leaning heavily on her. After making sure it was only them, he took a step back – almost knocking Ciri over.

“Excuse you, little lion.” Geralt said. “Get yourself back to bed.”

“Is that Triss? She’s pretty.” 

“She is. But she’ll also want some time alone with Yennefer, tonight. What say we leave them be, and cook them a really nice breakfast tomorrow morning?” Geralt suggested.

Ciri brightened. “I didn’t burn the bacon, last time!”

“That you didn’t.” He smiled.

Ciri returned the grin, picked up the parchment, and began to tear it into tiny pieces. Then she tossed them up in the air. The two watched the scraps float for a moment, before they settled like new snow all over the floor.

“All gone.” Ciri whispered.

“All gone.” Geralt agreed. “Right, back to bed with you. The best chefs get up very early.”

At the word ‘bed’, Ciri stifled a yawn. “Stay until I go back to sleep?”

Geralt rumbled low laughter. “Longer than that, little lion. I’m your new roommate, now.”

“Oh yeah.” She snuggled under the blankets, and then thoughtfully tossed him a pillow. “Remember, snorers get kicked.”

“I remember.” Geralt said, catching the pillow. He tucked the covers around the small girl, and settled onto the floor. She was asleep before he sunk deeply into meditation, too skittish to consider proper slumber.

* * *

“I never stopped hoping.” Yennefer whispered into Triss’ curls. They were short now, singed by the battle, but they smelled as beautiful as Yen remembered. The two were tucked into bed, Yennefer’s arm curled mindfully around Triss’ middle, aware of her healing side.

“I knew you’d be with the lion cub.” Triss said. “I couldn’t dare risk communication – not close to Sodden. And it took me awhile to heal enough to travel. I’m sorry if—”

“Hush, love.” Yennefer nuzzled into Triss neck. “You’re here. I would have known if something... if... Gods, let’s not speak of that. We lost so many. I knew I did not lose you.”

Triss turned her head slightly and kissed Yen’s nose. “I’d find you anywhere. In this lifetime or the next.”

Yennefer’s eyes turned serious. “You know I am here with Geralt because he has need of me, right? Princess Cirilla is powerful, and she cannot control her chaos. I will try to teach her what I know, but it’s going to take time.”

Triss hummed. “I can’t wait to meet her.” And then, “When you say Geralt has need of you...”

“I mean that we have resolved our argument for the sake of Cirilla. She is the priority. The djinn did tie Geralt and I together – I think I’ll always feel something for him – but for now, it is no more than friendly. I swore to always be honest with you in that regard, Triss. When you stayed with me and patched me up after that blasted dragon hunt – everything I said to you, I meant it.”

The other sorceress snuggled further into the warmth of her lover. “I meant what I said, too. I’ve cared for you since the days at the academy. I’m glad for that dragon hunt, if I am truthful. It lead you to me.”

“I suppose it did.” Yennefer said, stroking the side of Triss’ face with reverence.

“There’s a fifth presence in the house.” Triss remarked.

“There is. Jaskier, Geralt’s bard. Now there’s a story.” Yennefer sighed deeply. “Gods, Triss, and I thought you and I were playing hide-and-seek with our feelings.”

“Tell it to me?” Triss asked. “I like the sound of your voice.”

“It’s a long one. I shan’t blame you if you fall asleep during it.” Yennefer smiled, and began to weave the tale.

* * *

Jaskier awoke with the first light, now that he didn’t have the shield of the blankets. He blinked hazily, and murmured at the ache in his hand. As he held up both, now, he saw the straightness of his fingers. The surge of relief was immediate. If he healed well, he’d play soon enough.

He realised the folly of ordering Geralt to bring him parchment, now. It wasn’t as though he could write anything with coherency. Sighing, he picked up his journal with his left hand, and let it fall open to a random page.

_...I believe Geralt is mad at me. Perhaps not livid, but angry enough to give me the silent treatment. Well, more silent than usual. Is that possible? Regardless, I made a misstep today; whilst refilling my bladderskin in a wonderfully clear, deep pool, I witnessed a creature of such beauty gazing up at me that I nearly dropped my provisions. Alas, not my reflection; it was a woman with aquamarine curls, flaxen lashes, and pouting pink lips. I had to know her name – something compelled me to ask her. Unfortunately, it compelled me to stick my head in the water to ask her, and then she... rather changed. Her claws raked my back, and I felt her strong arms pulling me down, and gods knew I thought that was the end for me. Geralt disagreed, thankfully; he dispatched the siren efficiently, pumped the water out of my lungs, and gave me a lecture about safety and surroundings. He pointed out the tell-tale signs of a siren’s lair. Gods, if only he was always so verbose. In any case, we sit by the fire now; I am still drying, he is still brooding, and I fear I had best make it up to him..._

Had he always been so gormless? He examined the passage, recalling the day. Geralt had been angry at first; he’d called Jaskier ‘stupid’ and ‘ridiculous’. But now that he thought upon it, there had been something more to it all.

Was he just looking at the past in tones of rose, or had Geralt seemed scared?

Had Geralt been afraid of losing Jaskier? Why would he, if Jaskier was such a pain in his arse, and the reason for all of his burdens? He toyed with the page. After the dragon hunt, Geralt had snapped. But if he thought about it, the witcher had just weathered an intense battle, and had gone through an argument with the love of his life.

Geralt was so strong that sometimes Jaskier forgot how very human he could be. Human enough to say something spiteful in a fit of emotion. Human enough to push away a friend when he needed one, in order to punish himself.

Last night, Geralt had taken on Jaskier’s pain, to spare him.

In the Nilfgaardian dungeons, Geralt had broken in and slaughtered a man wearing a disguise that made him look like Geralt.

_To save Jaskier._

This, Jaskier realised, all of this – the healing, the house, the gentleness – it was Geralt’s way of apologising for being a brute on the mountain. The witcher was better with actions, not words. He’d known that for a long time. There was evidence of it all throughout his journal; memories of times Geralt had bought him a new blanket, or had picked him a flower because the colour was the same as Jaskier’s doublet, or had put himself on the outside of the campfire to ensure Jaskier was safest.

When Geralt was very young, he’d suffered torture multiple times at the hands of men that dared to call themselves his superior. He’d taken poisons and beatings and had his very body altered to become a weapon. They’d stolen his youth. They’d stolen the very pigment from his hair and skin. Geralt knew what it was to hurt.

With an jolt of clarity, Jaskier remembered all the times Geralt had tried to push Jaskier away, always half-hearted. All the “fuck off, bard”, all the “go away”, all the “we’re not friends” – behind it, there was hope. He wanted Jaskier to fight back, to correct him, or to ignore him. Because Geralt truly did not know how to say ‘friend’.

Geralt had Yennefer, and he had his child of destiny. There was a knock on the door. Jaskier straightened, making up his mind.

Geralt would have his friend back, too.

“It’s me.” Geralt’s voice was clear through the wood.

“Come in.” Jaskier called.

Geralt turned the knob, and idled in the doorway. “Shall I set it—”

“I forgive you.”

Geralt froze. “What?”

“For what you said to me after the dragon hunt. For our bitter parting. For your hand in it, I forgive you, Geralt, wholly.” Jaskier’s eyes were strong, blue on gold.

Meekly, Geralt crept into the room, setting the tray on the table. “...Why now?” He asked, so soft it was barely audible.

“Because you need me to.” Jaskier said. “And I need to. I want my friend back. The one that knows the other part of the story. I want him to know that I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry that I can be obnoxious, and ridiculous—”

“Jaskier, stop.”

“No. I’m sorry that you were hurt. And I forgive you for taking that hurt out on me. And I am thankful you saved me from Nilfgaard.” Jaskier’s smile was small. “I know you dislike the word, but I’d gladly be your friend again.”

“You are my friend.” Geralt blurted. Inwardly, he kicked himself for not saying more. “You are... important, Jaskier.”

Jaskier chuckled. “I’d ask for a hug, but I won’t push my luck. Plus you’re covered in... egg? Jam?”

Geralt wished Jaskier would press his luck, and that he wasn’t covered in egg and jam. As it was, he simply shrugged. “Ciri cooked breakfast with me.”

“Ah.” Jaskier said. “I should like to see her later, if she’d allow it. I’m afraid she must think poorly of me.”

“She’s a child. There’s a lot she doesn’t understand.” Geralt nodded. “But I think she’d love to see you.”

“Well, I’m an adult, and I understand fuck-all.” He covered his mouth. “Oh, bollocks. Going to have to watch my mouth with the princess about.”

Geralt ducked his head. “Yeah. Yen always hits me.”

“She’ll have her work cut out, then.”

A silence fell. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was new. Geralt breached it first.

“Ciri is in need of training, and a safe place to hide from Nilfgaard. This house will only stay hidden from their eyes for so long. We’ll need to move soon.” 

Jaskier tried not to flinch. He understood. He had a bit more time with this little family, to enjoy the warmth of them, and then they’d part.

“Right.” Jaskier said. “Will I be able to walk by then? Or is there somewhere nearby that I can lodge at?”

Geralt looked confused. “No, I... I would have you come with us, Jaskier.” _I need you_ , his mouth tried to move, but it was frozen. Instead, he muttered, “You, you could oversee Ciri’s academic lessons. You’d be safer with... with us.”

Well, that was unfair, Jaskier thought. Bringing Ciri into it. He burned at the idea of watching Geralt and Yennefer doting upon each other from afar, hiding his feelings, holed up... wherever they were going. He didn’t suppose that their destination had many single individuals upon which he could deflect his desire. Then again, Cirilla was a delight of a child, and she did need love and attention. Gods knew that Geralt and Yennefer weren’t the healthiest examples of adult emotion.

“I’ll think on it.” He managed.

Geralt frowned, but he nodded. “Alright.” He said, and turned to the door. He paused for a moment, glancing back at Jaskier on the bed. “I’m really glad... I’m, uh. I’m glad you’re...” The witcher grunted. “Good to see you out, Jaskier.”

Jaskier smiled. “Good to see you, Geralt.”

The witcher closed the door behind him, and Jaskier reached for the tray. Another flower – a daisy – and another note.

_Good morning, Jaskier. I wanted to thank you for giving Cirilla advice on her nightmares. She wrote one out last night, and after she tore it up, she slept easy. You always seem to know what to say. I wish I had the same gift. I hope you slept well. –Geralt_

Jaskier traced Geralt’s name with his left index fingertip, before he placed the note with the others in his journal.


	7. Backwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is getting better every day. Triss seems nice enough, too, even if Jaskier is rather jealous of her presence. And then he and Geralt have a little conversation about that. Can Jaskier cope with the weight of Geralt's admission?

After Jaskier had absolved Geralt of the horrendous things he’d said on the hunt for the dragon, Geralt felt pulled in two directions. That particular stone of guilt was no longer weighing him down. In its place, however, came a rush of fatigue that he’d been staving off for weeks. When he laid down to rest that evening on Ciri’s floor, half-covered in one of the few blankets left in the house, he descended into a dreamless sleep so deep that he didn’t even stir when the sun rose.

Cirilla crouched by him, inspecting him, quite possibly about to poke his cheek when Yennefer and Triss appeared in the doorway. The girl straightened, wide-eyed. Yen thought she could pass for innocent, if she wasn’t aware of the things Ciri had endured.

“Come, darling one,” Yennefer held out her hand, her voice low. “Geralt needs a good rest.”

Obediently, Ciri tiptoed from the room. Yen tucked her arm around the child, and gently closed the door behind them. Ciri glanced at Triss and smiled shyly. The two were acquainted, but the young princess was still skittish around new faces, understandably so.

“How did you sleep, Ciri?” Triss asked, walking behind the duo as they made their way into the kitchen.

“Well, thank you.” Cirilla might have been young, but her manner was still courtly. “Geralt told me he snores, but I have yet to hear it.”

Triss chuckled. “Perhaps he was teasing you. Is it nice to have him nearby?”

Beaming, the girl nodded. “Yes. I don’t dream about bad things as much.”

As Yennefer began to slice cheese into small wedges, Triss sat at the table. She knew better than to try to help her girlfriend. Although her injuries were almost completely healed, she suspected Yen would get rather bossy if she tried to exert herself just yet. The sorceress watched as Ciri and Yennefer bustled about the kitchen, and felt warm at the sight of the two in sync. Yennefer was always meant to have a child, Triss thought, and that child had to be Cirilla. They healed something in one another.

Their idle chatter and giggling was interrupted by a little clatter on the stairs, and all three paused and craned their heads. Carefully, a little clumsily, Jaskier was descending. Yennefer wiped her flour-covered hands on the skirt of her apron and rushed to assist him with the last few steps. He offered her a wobbly smile. She steadied him with her hands.

He was visibly trembling, slightly sweaty, but he was up.

“Good morning,” He said, skittish eyes flicking between the trio, “I apologise for interrupting.”

“Not at all—” Triss began,

“Jaskier!” Ciri squeaked,

“Hush, now.” Yennefer’s voice held the most command. “You’re not interrupting, Jaskier. We were just making breakfast. Perhaps you’d like to sit with us for a bit?”

Jaskier nodded. Cirilla bounced on the balls of her feet. Yen knew that she was using every once of her restraint not to simply launch herself at the bard. Her emerald eyes were glossy.

“If you don’t mind. Where is...?”

“Geralt is still asleep.” Triss said, standing. “Well met, Jaskier. My name is Triss Merigold. Yennefer has told me much about you.”

Jaskier was thankful that Yen guided him into a chair, because his blasted knee was protesting fiercely after the small trek downstairs. He ran his gaze over Triss hesitantly; he’d heard her name spoken at courts, but he’d never met the sorceress. Just like Ciri, his manners could not be shaken by trauma.

“Well met, my lady.” He flashed a smile. Jaskier had no clue what another mage was doing in the house, but he supposed that much knowledge surrounding Ciri was off-limits to him. Absently, he thought that was for the best. He didn’t want to know more than he needed to.

Nilfgaard was still out there.

Instead of asking after Triss’ presence, he let his pale gaze fall upon the princess, and his smile bloomed into something genuine and brilliant. Cirilla was practically quivering like an ill-trained hunting pup. All Jaskier had to do was open one arm in invitation, and she was barreling towards him, the small weight of her pressed into his chest.

He swallowed the smallest grunt as some of his injuries protested at the contact, but he shook his head slightly when Yen reached out in an offer to gently disentangle the girl. Ciri threaded her small fingers into the fabric of Jaskier’s borrowed shirt and whimpered into his shoulder. Jaskier looped his arm around her, hugging as tight as he was able.

“I’m sorry,” She hiccupped, “Jaskier—”

“Hey, now,” Jaskier soothed, tugging at the tip of her braid, “none of that. I know Yen would have explained things to you. I hope you listened.”

Ciri nodded miserably, and Jaskier understood. It was difficult to accept some spoken things. Words weren’t always enough. She’d needed to see that Jaskier wasn’t angry with her.

“I got out of bed to come say hello to you, specifically.” Jaskier whispered into the crown of her curls. “Aren’t I lucky, though? I seek the company of one beauty, and I find myself with three.”

Ciri snuffled, wiping at her eyes. “Grandmother once said that you speak silver nonsense.”

Both Yennefer and Triss made noises, attempting to correct the verbose princess, but Jaskier just laughed. The child looked between the adults.

“Your grandmother was a wise and wonderful woman, dearest. You have much of her bravery.” Fondly, Jaskier smudged the last of her tears away with his left thumb. “Now, I believe you promised me my lute, did you not?”

She brightened, nodding, and scampered off to find the case. Yennefer watched her go. Triss let her eyes wander over Jaskier, and he bristled ever-so slightly.

“Stay out of my mind, please.” He requested. It was low, not dissimilar to an animal’s warning growl. Yen strode around the table to stand behind the other woman, who held her hands up.

“I’ve no desire to invade your privacy, Jaskier.” Triss said. “Yennefer has told me what I need to know, and that is all.”

“Why are you here, Lady Merigold?” Jaskier asked, failing to keep suspicion out of his tone.

“She’s with me.” Yennefer answered, reaching down. Triss clasped Yen’s hand fondly. “And she’s here for Cirilla, too. The more training and protection, the better.”

If Jaskier didn’t know better, he would have sworn that the gaze the two women were sharing was beyond friendly. That the twining of their fingers was awfully fond. His suspicions were confirmed when Yennefer bent down, kissing the corner of Triss’ mouth, before she went back to the skillet warming on the stovetop.

It fucking figured that she’d have more than Geralt in her pocket. The thought was unfair, Jaskier knew it; he owed Yennefer a great debt, and the woman had shown him immeasurable kindness. So what if she had the love of a witcher _and_ a mage? He tried to tamp down the jealousy bubbling in his chest and remember his place in this hierarchy.

He was alive. Geralt had saved him. Yennefer had healed him. Triss seemed nice enough. There was warmth to be had here. Beyond that, there was Cirilla to think of. Jaskier was no witcher, and he certainly possessed no magic capabilities, but he knew the value of knowledge and the weaknesses of men.

Jaskier could be useful. He’d just need to tolerate the sight of a love triangle laid out before him. The alternative was to go back onto the road, head for the shelter of Oxenfurt, and pray that Nilfgaard didn’t catch him again. The shudder that rolled up his spine told him that he’d already made his choice.

He’d just have to make the best of it.

* * *

“Not a word of a lie!” Jaskier said, “The first time I saw Yennefer, I was so out of it that I thought she was a goddess made human.” He omitted the finer details of the event, because Ciri was hanging on his every word. The girl was sat beside him, cheerfully barraging him with questions. Both Yen and Triss were giggling. The remains of breakfast lay spread out on the table before them.

“Me too.” Triss offered, and Yen gave her a besotted look. Jaskier tried not to glance away. He had to get used to this.

“Oh, gross.” Ciri piped up. The bard snorted, and then covered his mouth.

“Young lady, that is not something to say to two powerful mages.” Jaskier used his best tone of authority. “Even when they are being gross.”

Yen smirked, and Triss rested her head on her lover’s shoulder. “Forgive us. We’ve been apart for a time.”

Jaskier softened. “Nothing to forgive, Yen.”

“Yeah, long as you don’t start kissing again.” Ciri’s nose wrinkled. Jaskier wanted to agree, but instead he nudged the girl with his elbow.

“Powerful mages, dearest. We’re nice to powerful mages.”

Triss laughed. “We’ll behave, Ciri. Someday you’ll find someone to be gross with when you are older, and you’ll understand.”

“Don’t want someone.” Ciri said, shredding the crust of her bread with fidgety fingers. “I’m going to learn how to use a big sword, like Geralt. I’m going to be strong.”

_Gods, don’t let Geralt’s emotional instability rub off on her_ , Jaskier thought. Yen seemed to have a similar mindset.

“Love doesn’t make you weak, my darling. It makes you want to stand up taller. It makes you want to conquer the worst monsters. To keep that love, you’d endure anything.” Yennefer reached over and rubbed a smear of jam from Ciri’s cheek.

As the child put up a cursory protest, Jaskier considered everything he had endured. How he’d almost changed into another person entirely to please an illusion. He loved Geralt so much that he’d be whatever the witcher needed him to be. And he had survived. Did that make him strong?

It didn’t feel like it. To love Geralt was to stand before a chasm and hope for an echo. He’d thrown so many gifts and songs and confessions into the yawn of the abyss, and it stood silent.

But he hadn’t thrown himself in. He’d come close, certainly. He still walked the precarious edge of it, but he endured, as Yen said.

The word at his chest ached in a healing throb, but for the first time, he ignored it.

* * *

The event of breakfast had been more medicinal than Jaskier had anticipated. The conversation and even the low, radiant love shared by the two sorceresses had soothed the social creature within him. He was still healing physically, however; Yen noticed him drooping before he’d caught it himself, and with her aid, he’d returned upstairs to rest in his bed-nest.

Jaskier napped through the day and into the evening. When he awoke to a knock on his door, he was briefly confused by the darkness – hadn’t he just closed his eyes? – but he acknowledged the sound with a grunt that could be translated as consent. The handle turned, and Geralt’s silhouette idled on the threshold, a tray in his hands.

“May I come in, Jaskier?” He asked.

“Yes.” Jaskier said, stifling a yawn. He fumbled about for the lamp, and then cursed. “Hand me a spill from the—” But before he could finish his sentence, the wick was lit. Jaskier chuckled. “Ah, thank you. How could I forget your magic?”

Geralt lowered his hand sheepishly, placing the tray on the table. “If Vesemir knew I was lighting oil lanterns with igni, he’d have a few choice words to say.”

“Then I shan’t tell him” Jaskier said.

Geralt’s eyes widened. “You are coming, then? To Kaer Morhen?”

Honestly, he’d never seen the witcher look so delighted. Jaskier took a moment to study the other man’s features; he looked rested, actually. Yesterday the fatigue he’d radiated had been worrying. Maybe Triss’ arrival had finally tired him enough to get a decent sleep.

He tried not to feel jealous about the implications of that thought.

“Yes.” Jaskier said, picking up his quill and twirling it with his left hand. “You said Ciri needs me, and Yen said that more hands are better in this case. So I shall.”

The joy dimmed in Geralt’s amber eyes, and Jaskier didn’t understand why. “Oh, yes.” The witcher mumbled.

“Triss seems nice.” Jaskier ventured. He looked over at the tray. Geralt noticed, and moved it to the bed.

“She’s okay.” Geralt shrugged. Well, he was always reserved with his deeper feelings. Jaskier doubted he’d be a captive audience to any love poetry the witcher had written for the two sorceresses.

“Must be grand,” The bard mused, picking at some of the dried fruit on his tray, “sleeping in a bed with all those lovely curves. Do you sleep between them? A sort of... mage sandwich?”

Geralt looked utterly confused. “What?”

“Oh, come now. If I’m to be the odd one out, let me live vicariously. Actually, how do you all fit in a bed? I suppose Yen must have her ways—”

“Jaskier.”

“—But still, a tight fit. Actually, speaking of being left out – your brothers. Are they spoken for?”

“Jaskier!”

“Because I am only a weak human man, Geralt, and I will need company now and then. Eskel and Lambert, right? Do either of them—”

“My brothers would not touch you!” Geralt’s voice was a sharp bark, and Jaskier instantly flinched, cowering.

“Erm, right.” The bard’s gaze dropped, and he burned hot with shame. “Yes, you’re right. Silly of me to think...” He released the quill from his hand. Nobody would want him after this, not with the nightmares and the word scarring at his chest and the possible price on his head. “Never mind.”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled like he always did when Jaskier had fucked up. He braced himself for a lecture. The insidious voice in his head walked spider-feet across his cerebrum.

_Fuck off, bard._

_Shut up, Jaskier._

“I’m not with Yennefer.” Is what Geralt blurted out, instead. It was a sucker-punch of a different sort. Now Jaskier was the one staring.

“You’re—I beg your pardon?”

Geralt’s lips upturned in a shy smile. “Yen and I are friends, but that is all. We agreed that destiny has bound us, but that we don’t feel the same connection that we once did. She forgave me my foolish wish, because it brought Cirilla to us.”

“What about Triss?” Jaskier’s voice was a squeak, but he was too stunned to care.

“Triss is with Yennefer. Romantically. As in, they share the bed, Jaskier. I sleep on Ciri’s floor.”

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth, trying to process this information. It cast everything in a different light. Geralt’s actions, the notes, the story...

“Wh-why wouldn’t... your brothers...” Jaskier went to wring his hands and regretted the action when his fingers protested in pain. “W-why wouldn’t...?”

Geralt shifted from the squat he’d been in to kneel. He looked vulnerable somehow; a massive mountain of a man threatened by a landslide. Jaskier tried to catch his gaze, but Geralt stared at his hands.

“Because they know.” The witcher whispered.

“Geralt?” Jaskier made a low noise of frustration. “Know what?”

“They know that I love you.” The confession came like a rush of river-water, a rapid that washed over Jaskier and filled his lungs. Frozen, he sat staring in silence. Eventually, Geralt’s eyes returned to Jaskier's.

_Trap!_ Jaskier’s mind screeched. _This isn’t real. Wake up, Jaskier!_

“Get out, please.” Jaskier requested, his monotone alien to his own ears.

Geralt drew in on himself. His expression was so hurt that it nearly halted Jaskier’s panic. Slowly, the witcher rose.

“Please, Jaskier—”

“Out!” Jaskier’s shout bounced off the ceiling, high and broken. “Get out!”

Geralt nodded, and did as he was bid. The door closed almost noiselessly behind him. Jaskier was shaking so hard that the tray on his bed rattled.

Geralt loved him. Loved him? Why? How? _Trap!_ Frightened, he hunched over, the fissure within him beginning to crack open anew. Physical torture had been horrific. He’d endured levels of pain that he never knew existed. He’d faced the idea that he might never play his lute again. And the level of mockery inflicted on him by Nilfgaard – by Geralt – by, fuck. Well, he’d been able to cope with that.

This was different. This was new. This fractured him apart and made his grip on reality slippery again. How obscenely cruel, he thought. Was this the next stage in a revenge plan?

His face was wet. He’d been sobbing noiselessly. With unsteady hands, he picked up the bottle of poppy milk, and thumbed the cork free. Instead of measuring the dose into water, he let the bitter liquid drip directly into his mouth.

Jaskier couldn’t escape, but he could sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to assure you that Jaskier's actions aren't suicidal in nature -- nobody is going to die in this story! He's simply trauma relapsing and looking for an escape, and therefore self-medicating. He'll sleep deeply, but he's safe.
> 
> Again, I do intend for this story to have a positive resolution; PTSD is not a quick thing to heal from. I've actually rushed it in this story, all things considered!


	8. Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt weathers the rejection. Jaskier and Yennefer speak of the past. All of them continue to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy howdy, this took a hot minute to get written. Sorry everyone! I lost the threads of this story and only put them back together in my tiny brain recently. There should only be a couple more chapters after this one.

Geralt trampled gracelessly down the stairs. Both Yennefer and Triss looked up from the kitchen table, startled from their heated Gwent game by the clatter. The witcher's expression was carefully blank.

“Going to walk Roach.” He muttered, never breaking his stride.

The two mages exchanged a worried glance, communicating wordlessly. Yen squeezed Triss' hand, rising as the front door shut with Geralt's departure. She took a moment to wrap up in a fur-trimmed cloak, giving Geralt a few precious minutes to scrape his thoughts together.

He'd need longer than that, she knew, but she'd afford him some dignity.

Outside, the late autumn air nipped at her exposed skin, and she tucked her hands against her chest. The lantern was lit in the stables. Yennefer followed the spill of warm light, making her footsteps purposefully noisy. Geralt's low muttering ceased.

“What happened?” Yen asked. There was little point in dancing around the question. She'd survived through enough trials and time with him to earn the privilege of brevity.

“He didn't.” Geralt's voice was thick, “He doesn't. I told him.”

Roach danced on impatient hooves, unsettled by Geralt's distress. The emotion hummed thick around him, shone fever-bright in the gloss of his goldfire eyes. Yennefer placed a gentle hand on the horse's neck and sighed.

“And what _happened,_ Geralt?” She prompted.

“Told me to get out.” Geralt's gaze skittered away from her like ship-rats startled from grain barrels.

Yennefer's fingers itched with the desire to comfort him, but she knew better than to touch him when he was so distressed. How he'd flinch and growl and refuse the care. People don't hug monsters, he'd once told her. They don't deserve it.

“And you left?” Yennefer asked.

“Of course I left.” Geralt snapped. “He doesn't feel the same way, Yen. How the fuck could he? I'm the whole reason he got captured! I said what I said to him back on that fucking mountain, and now he's...” The witcher glared at his calloused fingers, flexing them. “Off my hands. Like I asked.”

“He's scared, Geralt.” Yen said, reaching within the exhausted well of herself for patience. “He went through a horrifying ordeal. You know how pain can change a person. You know better than most people.”

Geralt's massive shoulders slumped. Yennefer had never seen him look so tired, so resigned. She felt her own bones ache with the fatigue of it all. A bit longer, just a bit longer, and there would be safety and warmth again. Triss whispered the encouragement often; Yen trusted her.

“What do I do?” Geralt asked, toying with Roach's bridle.

“You have to convince him,” Yen said. “It might not be easy, but if you want him to come with us when Triss and I have enough strength to stabilise a portal, you have to.”

“How?” Geralt dropped a piece of tack, cold fingers clumsy.

“I don't know, Geralt.” Yennefer pinched the bridge of her nose. “I'm trying to recover, and Triss is, and Ciri needs us, and I can't fucking magic away all of your problems, alright?”

Geralt flinched as though she'd struck him. She didn't need to read his mind to know what he was thinking. Oh, how many times had she seen the same guarded pain on his rugged features?

“If you keep calling yourself an undeserving mutant, Geralt, then that is all you will ever be. Do you understand that? If you don't fight for yourself, then you can't fight for him. Tell him again. And again, and again, until you both believe it.” Yen's hand slipped from Roach to brush Geralt's shoulder, a scant reassurance, before she walked back into the house.

Geralt watched her departure, wondering how he could feel so very frantic and deeply numb at the same time. A hot whuff of Roach's breath parted his hair. He turned to the mare and allowed the methodical task of tending to her needs ground him.

* * *

“He downed almost all of the remaining poppy milk.” Triss said, upon Yennefer's return. “Enough to see him unconscious for the rest of tonight, and probably most of tomorrow.”

“He's stable?” Yen asked, hanging up her cloak.

“Yes. Not even dreaming, from what I could see.”

“Not ideal, but I suppose we'll make the best of the situation.” Yennefer said. She crossed the room to kiss her beloved on the cheek, before picking up a basket. With a studious care, she plucked supplies from their stash; clean gauzes and salves.

“That's a good idea,” Triss said, “change his dressings whilst he's under.”

Yen nodded, about to speak, when Geralt's voice interjected.

“I'll see to him.” The witcher's ability to be soundless rarely startled Yennefer anymore, but Triss fumbled with a medicinal jar, glaring. Geralt spread his hands in meek supplication. “I should do it. Would that be alright? If... you two stayed down here and just listened for Ciri, tonight?”

Triss shared another quick glance with Yennefer. They both nodded. Wordlessly, he took up the basket, glancing over the things within it.

“I interrupted your Gwent game. You should get back to it.” Geralt's eyes darted between Yen and Triss, creased with gentle apology. “Triss is going to win, though.”

As he ascended the stairs, Geralt almost smiled at the fond bickering that erupted in his wake. Yennefer was right. They needed more time together.

* * *

The faint throb within Geralt's chest upon seeing Jaskier was no longer new, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. He'd always fancied heartache as a poet's affliction, something falsified and exaggerated. It was strange to think that he'd suffered it for years now, utterly unable to assign a name to the feeling.

“Hello, Jaskier.” Geralt whispered, because it felt right to greet him, even in a deeply drugged slumber. “It's—it's me.” A pause, and then he thought he ought to clarify. “Geralt.”

Jaskier, of course, did not respond. The bard drew slow, even breaths, the sluggish beat of his heart rivaling Geralt's. Frowning, Geralt knelt at his bedside, and took up the nearly empty bottle of poppy milk. He tucked it away in his basket.

“I know you're hurting.” Geralt kept his voice low, although he doubted that a hurricane would rattle Jaskier from his sleep. “I know it's because of Nilfgaard. But I also know it's because of me.”

With great care, he began to unroll the soiled bandages from Jaskier's knee. The bruising was still a violent nebula of indigo and emerald, although he knew Yennefer and Triss had saved his bones. It was tissue damage remaining, needing time and patience to heal. Even once fully repaired, Geralt suspected Jaskier might forever walk with a limp.

Geralt would make him a sturdy stick to aid his gait. He'd whittle it and polish it and carve something nice up the sides of it. Perhaps he'd inlay the head with colourful resin. Maybe Jaskier would be slower, but that just meant Geralt would shorten his own strides to match.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you that this is actually looking better.” Geralt said, carefully smoothing bruise balm onto the mottled flesh. “Everything is looking better, actually. Your fingers, your weals. Yen and Triss healed you, but you fought, Jaskier.”

The bard made a low moan as Geralt re-wrapped his knee, but he did not awaken. Geralt let out a breath he'd unwittingly held captive. He examined Jaskier's fingers, bound them anew, and tended to other bruises and cuts. Some of the sutures were ready to come out, which was pleasant progress.

He left the bandages at Jaskier's chest for last. With a resolute grimness, he peeled the linen away. The lie stared back at him, some of it scarred, some of it still stitched. _Fool._

“They were wrong about you.” Geralt tried to keep the growl from his voice, and failed. “I've never met someone like you before, Jaskier. How smart you are. How brave. Your loyalty and fierceness and kindness. I forgot that humans could be like you. I should have told you every fucking day but, but I didn't.”

Carefully, he snipped some of the threads and tugged them free. He generously applied a layer of herbal healing balm, and although the wounds no longer needed a bandage, Geralt covered them back up anyway. Jaskier didn't need to see them.

“I'm sorry that we had to choose between your fingers or this scar. I know what it's like to wear them. Scars, I mean. Ones that you never asked for. Ones that have no pride in them. I never wanted you to suffer such a fate.” Geralt wiped his hands, and then brushed Jaskier's hair from his brow. “With time, they will silver and fade. And, and you have... you boast the hair to hide them.”

His own attempt at levity didn't bring a smile to his lips. Jaskier snuffled, a sure sign that he was dreaming, and Geralt watched his eyelids quiver. How he hoped that it was a nice memory, or even something benign. Geralt wished he could pull the nightmares from Jaskier's mind and spool them like fishing wire, never let them ensnare his bard again.

“I don't know... if I'm ready to love you, Jaskier. I think if I wait until I feel ready, there will be no time left to do it. I've already wasted too much of it. I think—I think you're not ready, too. But maybe we can be not ready together.” Geralt let his fingers rest on Jaskier's thigh, gentle. “You forgave me, seeking my friendship again, and if that is all you want from me I will cherish it gladly.”

Jaskier slept, and Geralt watched and waited and hoped, knowing how much harder it would be to speak when the man awoke. He had to try, though. Yennefer was rarely wrong. Geralt would fight for Jaskier.

* * *

Consciousness brushed Jaskier with flight-feathers, soft and strong. His eyes dragged open, lids heavy and stiff with sleep-grit. Everything was weighted and distant.

For a joyous moment, he forgot his situation. Must've gone too heavy on the ale, perhaps, or maybe he was processing the after-effects of a particularly wild party drug. Which engagement had he sung at last night, again?

“ _...know that I love you.”_

The knife's edge of the memory sliced through the last lingering threads of fatigue. Jaskier jolted violently, reminded not only of the trap that snared insidious around his traitorous heart, but also of the pain that still gripped his body. A gasp tapered his tongue, strangled before it could be realised.

“Hey, hey now,” A low voice, “you're okay. You're safe.”

“Yennefer.” Jaskier bit the name out. “F-fuck, I--”

“Shh,” Yennefer soothed, adjusting the lantern-light so it wouldn't burn his eyes. “Just breathe for me, Jaskier. That's all you have to do right now. In and out, slowly.”

The cadence of her voice was a buoy for Jaskier to cling to with sweat-slippery fingers, awash in the paralysis of an inky ocean of panic. His diaphragm stuttered with movement as he obeyed. Slowly, wave by wave, letting the minutes slip past as Yennefer ferried him to shore. Jaskier breathed.

“There you are,” Yennefer whispered, “that's it. I've got you.”

In the aftermath of the attack, everything felt too crisp, too bright. Jaskier closed his eyes against the low burn of the fire. Yennefer's hand rested on his wrist, just a wisp-touch, so that he'd know she was still with him.

He felt wholly consumed with appreciation.

“I cannot believe I ever called you a witch.” Jaskier said, not daring to peek at her. “I thought you such a threat, when there was nothing you could take from me. Nothing that was mine, anyway.”

Yennefer stroked the side of his forearm with her thumb. “I called you far worse, Jaskier. And to your face, if you'll recall. In truth, I was jealous.”

“As was I.”

“The djinn made me long for a connection that simply was not there. How I thought I loved Geralt, Jaskier. I thought that for our lives to mean anything, the coincidences of crossing his path again and again – well, that it had to be the kind of love that people spend their entire lives searching for. I tried to forge it, and so did he, and we had... something together, for awhile. But it wasn't quite love.” Yennefer seemed almost apologetic, and it made Jaskier ache.

“I'm so sorry, Yen.”

“Don't be. We'd hurt each other in our eagerness to be something else, and the bitter disappointment drove me to seek comfort from an old friend. Triss listened, and gave me advice, and waited patiently for me to recognise what I truly wanted. How trite you will find it, Jaskier, with all your floral words – but the truth is that she was always there. I didn't have to search for Triss.”

Jaskier sniffed, opening his eyes. “Not... not trite, Yennefer. Believe me when I tell you that your love is a beautiful and unique thing to behold. It is not a surprise to me that Geralt chased it with such fervour.”

“We would have consumed each other.” Yennefer said. “Him as steady as an ancient oak, me as hot as a stoked forge. When we let that go, we found the love in a different place.”

“Cirilla.” Jaskier murmured. “She is every bit your daughter as she is Geralt's.”

Yennefer smiled. “What a precious and odd child she is. I don't have the gift of foresight, and I think those that claim to do are mostly hacks, but I know she's going to grow into grace and power.”

Before Nilfgaard had taken him from the road, Jaskier's interactions with Yennefer had been sparse and tempered by poor circumstance. It began to dawn upon him that Cirilla was at the centre of a great change; that the golden-lion girl was very real, and therefore it naturally followed that Yennefer would guard her fiercely, every bit the matronly protector. If Yennefer's devotion to Ciri was something real that he could trust, then perhaps he could connect Geralt's paternal bond to the child, too.

All of them, real. All of them there, together. There was no revenge to be had.

Geralt's declaration was still misplaced; Jaskier didn't want to parse it just yet. If it wasn't trickery, then perhaps it was simply pity. Jaskier thought such an emotion was below the witcher's capability, but then again, Jaskier had never been tortured before.

“Forgive me,” Jaskier raised his gaze, summer-blue on vivid violet. “I believed you wished me dead. I truly did, and I am sorry for it now.”

“The mind is a powerful weapon.” Yennefer said. “I believe Nilfgaard knew that you were too clever for their usual techniques. Think about this, Jaskier: they tormented you, but you never broke.”

“I feel broken.”

“Fractured, yes, but not broken. You safeguarded Cirilla, too. She might be young, but she knows that.”

Jaskier wiped his cheeks with his bandaged hand. “I... didn't know enough to be useful to them, anyway.”

“I think you did.” Yennefer leaned forward. “You knew about Kaer Morhen. You knew of Geralt's brothers, of Vesemir. When they made you tell that awful story over and over, you defaulted to memories of your own failings and locked away those that might have aided Nilfgaard. Maybe it was an unconscious decision, but it was one you made nonetheless.”

“Why would--” Jaskier hiccuped, gratefully accepting a cup of water when Yennefer offered it. He wet his mouth. “You give me too much credit, Yen.”

“I haven't given you enough, just as you didn't give me enough in the past. So from here, we change that. You are a strange little bard, Jaskier, and our lives would be duller without you in it.” She slid a tray beside the bed, laden with a cold supper. “Eat up, alright? We must leave within a week, and you'll need your strength to portal.”

Nodding, Jaskier set the water down. “Thank you, Yen. Fuck, I'd be dead without you.”

“Oh, I know it. You and Geralt both.” Yennefer stood.

“And-- and thank you for changing my bandages, whilst I slept.”

“I didn't.” Yennefer lingered at the doorway. “Geralt did. He stayed with you all night and then all through the day, until the milk wore off.”

It was a small revelation, but Jaskier's head spun with it anyway. Yennefer shook her head at him, sighing. As she opened the door, she offered him a final thought.

“You know that fishmonger song you used to sing? I never told you, but I thought it was funny. I liked it.”

Hopefully the sound of the door clicking closed muffled Jaskier's mirthful snort. He hadn't had much cause to laugh, not for a long time, but in the privacy of the room, he allowed himself a chuckle. When he picked up the bread and cold meat on the tray, a piece of parchment stuck to the bottom of the plate fluttered onto his lap.

_Jaskier,_

_Tonight, after you have eaten, I will sit in the hallway. If you wish it, it will be as if I am not there. But if you would let me, I hope to speak with you. Please._

_~~Love~~ ~~From~~ Love,_

_Geralt_

Jaskier's eyes watered when he blinked, dry from staring at the letter. Was Geralt outside his door now? It wasn't as though the witcher would so much as scuffle his feet for Jaskier to hear; if Geralt wanted to remain silent, he could do so for hours upon hours.

This was Jaskier's choice.

 _Fuck it,_ Jaskier thought, a little giddy with the power of it. The note had said after he'd eaten, and Jaskier was still ravenous. He took his time picking apart the food, savouring the spices on the meat, licking his exposed fingers clean.

The entire time, the parchment sat in his lap, face-down.


	9. A Hundred Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt explains his past to Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Witcher trial stuff, mentions of torture/death. An epilogue after this chapter, and then the story is done! Being as you waited so very long for the last one, I popped this one up today.

“Why now? Why now, when I am at my most vulnerable, in the deepest pit of my life thus far?” Jaskier asked. There was no need to raise his voice beyond a conversational mutter. Even if he whispered the words, Geralt would hear him.

“I—I thought—" Gruff stuttering, and then the sound of a body unfolding, of boots on floorboards. “May I come in, Jaskier? Please?”

“You may.”

Geralt opened the door and stepped inside, letting it click shut in his wake. Jaskier spared him a glance; the witcher was red-eye sleep-robbed once more, dressed in mismatched clothes that were more wrinkle than cloth. Hesitance dominated his posture, bowed him humbly; the gravity of unspoken truths pulled at him heavily.

“Is here okay?” Geralt asked. “I can stand, or sit, or—"

“Just answer me.”

A contemplative nod. Geralt knelt, adopting a posture similar to that of his meditations. “To be brief, the truth is because I was scared and foolish. To expand upon that, I'd beg a modicum of your patience.”

Jaskier snorted, propping himself up on the mattress. “Patience? I gave you years upon years of patience, Geralt. For fuck's sake, it was obnoxiously apparent to me that my romantic feelings towards you were violently unwanted, but you couldn't so much as call me your fucking _friend._ I shelved my heart and became your platonic companion instead. After twenty years, after all we've seen together – friendship was too much of an ask. And now you love me? You love me enough to forbid me from the beds of your brothers? To hold a vigil at my bedside? Forgive my skepticism, Geralt, but I believe you feel pity and shame. Not love.”

Geralt's hands rested atop his thighs. He stared at them for a long time. Between the two of them, silence hung like an insidious autumnal fog.

“I've never told you how old I am.” Geralt said, not looking up. “You have asked, and I have simply said, 'old'. And that is true. After awhile, you stop counting the years. I could not tell you the date of my birth. I could not tell you the season.”

Glowering, Jaskier let him speak. Anger bit a path through his veins, hot with every pulse of his heart. In order to keep himself from gawking at Geralt, he fidgeted with the quill on his tray.

“When I met you in Posada, I had been a witcher for over a hundred years.”

Jaskier squeaked. “A _hundr_ —" And then he let his mouth click closed.

A humourless grimace tugged at Geralt's lips. “I told you I was an old bastard.”

Questions tickled the edge of Jaskier's tongue, but he held it. His continued silence was expectant. Geralt's demeanour became uneasier.

“When... I was training. At Kaer Morhen. Friendships were...” Geralt grunted. “Discouraged. I didn't understand at first. None of the boys my age did. We found any and every reason to flaunt the rules; staying up late telling stories, stealing scraps from the kitchen to share, playing secret games with dumb fucking rules behind our master's backs. When I was ten years old, they began the first trial.”

“I've read a bit about the trials.” Jaskier said, splitting the barbs of the feather into even sections. “There isn't much written, just rumours that boys were given potions and what-not in an effort to mutate them.”

“The Choice comes first. A stupid name to give it, because our choices were, 'begin the trial or try your luck in an orphanage, if you can make it down the mountain'. We were given a special diet, strange herbal tinctures, and mushrooms I've never seen again, and other bullshit that looked like it had been shovelled off the forest floor. The hunger scraped us from the inside out.

Around me, the first of the boys began to die from exhaustion and organ failure. Ten years old, I'd awaken in the dorm and fucking pray that everyone else got up that day, too. The beds emptied. I stopped praying. During the day, we trained until we couldn't lift a sword. In the evening, we'd dig graves. At night, none of us had stories to tell anymore.” Geralt's eyes gleamed, distant.

Jaskier didn't dare speak. Tears blurred his vision and squeezed his throat. He longed to reach out and place his hand over Geralt's, but he found himself quite frozen.

“I cannot... explain in words, the agony of The Grasses. Those of us that had survived The Choice were bound and force-fed elixirs that attacked our nerves and re-shaped them. After that, I had Eskel. There was only Eskel and I remaining in my age group, and we forged a brotherhood through the next trial. We had to. If I didn't have him, I would have succumbed to The Dream.

The final trial was easy, compared to the others. The masters wanted to see if we'd credit the school, if we'd make it outside the keep on The Path. More than that, though, they needed some kind of fucking... absolution. Wanted to know if we remembered the pain of the trials and our lives before them. All of us who passed said no. But we remembered. We fucking remembered, Jaskier.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier's voice caught in his throat, a pitiful whine. His fingers quivered.

“I do not tell you this for sympathy. I cannot ask such a thing of you. I tell you so you'll know that my whole life, the only friends I've had have been those of... convenience, or circumstance. Perhaps that was why I trapped Yen the way that I did. Saw that she was as indestructible as me and wanted—wanted to tame that, to keep something of this world for myself. Fucking selfish. Those that care for witchers are doomed to walk a thankless, treacherous road. They will wake up one day to an empty bed and a rotten set of bones found in the woods months later. Nobody cried at the graves of those boys, Jaskier. They rotted in the fucking ground with blood in their mouths and flesh peeled from--”

Geralt swallowed a sob, lurching. It was instinct that made Jaskier flinch forward to catch him, but once he had his arms around the witcher, he couldn't imagine letting go. Geralt clutched a fistful of Jaskier's hair and trembled against him.

“I'm—I'm so sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “I'm so fucking sorry. I'm sorry that happened to you.”

“I couldn't tell you.” Geralt's voice was muffled by Jaskier's shoulder. “I couldn't—couldn't risk you. If I burdened you, how could I forgive myself? So I pushed, and I pushed, hoping you'd leave. For you. But you, you never did.”

“I never did.” Jaskier nodded, sore fingers at the nape of Geralt's neck. “How could I?”

“You should have. I was an ass. Too morose to note the passing of time, too scared you'd laugh at me. Even more scared that you wouldn't, and I'd be digging another grave.”

“I'm here.” Jaskier soothed. “I'm alive, Geralt. It's alright.”

Sniffing, Geralt pulled away. He swiped his face with his shirt-sleeve. “I know I fucked up. I wasted time. I'm sorry for that. But you must know, Jaskier. The story of the bard and the witcher. It's not supposed to end on a damn mountaintop. The witcher—he loves the bard. He loves him so much.”

Jaskier sobbed, messy and ugly, covering his mouth. “The bard loves the witcher, too,” He rasped, “he has for a very long time.”

“Will you—could you—“ Geralt fidgeted restlessly where he knelt, “Give me a chance? To prove it. To, to be with you. Please. Jaskier, I can't lose you.”

“I'm not the same, Geralt. I'm marked and hurt and I don't think I'll ever be the bard you once knew--”

“I love you as you are, now.” Geralt vowed. “I'll love you however you will be. On the days you sing, I will listen. On the days you hurt, I will carry you. If you will let me, Jaskier, I'll love you every day that you give me.”

Ignoring the ache of his bruises, Jaskier flung his arms around Geralt's neck and crushed himself into the witcher. “Yes,” He wept, “yes, Geralt. I will let you.”

Geralt cradled the other man against his chest, burying his nose into the chestnut halo of Jaskier's hair. “Thank you. I promise, I love, I— _thank you._ ”

* * *

The single mattress hardly had room for both of their masses, but Jaskier was sprawled lamprey-like across Geralt's chest, dozing on and off. Mindful of Jaskier's tender leg, Geralt held him. Although he was exhausted, Geralt woke up every time Jaskier did, effervescent with new nerves.

Grey dawn-light diffused through the window, struggling within a low cloud cover. Jaskier flexed kittenishly, and Geralt opened his eyes.

“Morning,” Jaskier ventured.

“Morning,” Geralt returned.

Bashfully, Jaskier tucked his head beneath Geralt's chin, pressed against the plodding pulse of his heartbeat. Outside, fat snowflakes began to fall, a silent procession of winter-fodder. Jaskier gasped.

“Look, Geralt! Snow. It's the first snow.”

“So it is.” Geralt said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind Jaskier's ear. He'd seen too many seasons in his lifetime, and the beginning of the cold usually carried a mixed burden. The joy of seeing his brothers again. The disappointment of parting from Jaskier for four months.

Now, everything was different.

“Eskel and Lambert are going to love you.” Geralt murmured.

Jaskier was quite used to the peculiar syntax of Geralt's thoughts, cherry-picked as they were. He didn't ask for extrapolation. “You think so?”

“I know so. Eskel already knows about you. He's smart, like you are. Lambert—well. Lambert is a fucking arsehole.” Geralt sounded fond. “Baby of the family. He likes to start fires.”

“Metaphorical or literal?”

“Both.”

Jaskier giggled. Geralt thrilled at the noise. “They both sound delightful. I hope that they shan't mind my imposition too much. When I am well enough, I'll lend my aid in the kitchens--”

“First of all, you are mine. You aren't an imposition.” Geralt interrupted. “Secondly, you shall do no such thing. Jaskier, you are many things, but you are a tragic chef.”

“Oh, you varlet!” Jaskier squawked, even as his cheeks burned red. He could get used to Geralt's possessive declarations. “I'll have you know that I make an excellent roast spatchcock.”

“You once burned water.”

“Only because I left the pot unattended. Everyone has done that, darling.” Jaskier flicked a wrist.

“You thought holly berries were edible.”

“They're so pretty and red!”

“You have--”

“Alright,” Jaskier groused, “I'll stay out of the damnable kitchens. See if I ever roast a spatchcock for you, you cur.”

Geralt's laughter rattled through his chest. In order to keep up his huffy facade, Jaskier hid his smile in the material of Geralt's shirt. The witcher tugged affectionately at the ends of Jaskier's hair.

“There will be laundry and dusting and Ciri's education and a hundred other things to do, Julek. When you are well enough. When I say you are well enough.” Geralt specified.

Jaskier raised his head, blinking sleepily. “You—how did you—you do listen, don't you? I daresay I've only uttered my birth-name a couple of times in your presence.”

“Hmm.” Geralt searched Jaskier's eyes. “Sorry.”

“No, don't be. It's just been a long time since I've heard the nickname. My family used to use it.”

“You have a second family, now.” Geralt said.

“I do, don't I?”

“A less traditional one, perhaps, but... yes.”

“I've never really liked tradition.” Jaskier smiled down at Geralt.

Geralt huffed, amused, and smiled back. He traced the line of Jaskier's upper lip with the tip of his index finger, memorising the soft cupid's bow curve. Outside, the quiet snow drifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sprinkles a Julek in there because I'm me, not sorry bout it*


	10. And They Were Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue.
> 
> Thank you to those who stuck with this story. I am relieved to finally have it finished. I am grateful for your comments and kudos; they made me want to give this story a resolution. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> (Obviously none of this is canon compliant lol)

Some years, spring was slow to press the warmth of her fingers into the teetering snowbanks at Kaer Morhen; teasing at slush avalanches, melting the top-coat just enough during the day to turn the entire world ice-slick at night. Geralt sat on a crumbling section of the eastern wall that once served as a defence turret. Between two mountain-peaks, the sun was starting its daily ascent, splitting pale rays into rainbow fractals through the lens of frozen dew-drops clinging to pine needles.

Beneath the warmth of his furs, in the ethereal silence of the morning, Geralt could sometimes appreciate how Jaskier's poetry came to pass. Such evocative turning of phrase would always evade him, but he enjoyed seeing the world twice; once through his own eyes, and once through Jaskier's words.

His bard was stealthier these days, wholly devoted to training sessions when his knee allowed for it, but Geralt heard the crunch of Jaskier's boots on the salt and grit regardless. No privacy in a witcher's keep. That hadn't changed. Still, Geralt kept his gaze focused on the awakening valley below, and allowed Jaskier to climb the tower steps at his own pace.

“Nightmare, love?” Jaskier's voice was still sleep-roughened. He sat beside Geralt with a small groan. Offered him a steaming mug of tea, which Geralt accepted gratefully.

“Hmm.” Geralt affirmed, breathing in the scent of lemongrass and ginger. Jaskier had made Geralt's tea weaker, and with a little more honey. It was perfect.

“Want to talk about it?”

Geralt considered the question. It was a consequence-free proposition, he knew that by now. So many nights he'd shaken awake in Jaskier's grasp with the blood of ghosts on his hands. So many nights Jaskier had woken him in the clutches of his own terror, too.

“No,” Geralt decided, “it wasn't new. Digging the graves.”

Jaskier nodded. He knew the dream Geralt was referring to. Nursing his tea, he leaned his weight into the witcher by his side, nestling his head on Geralt's shoulder.

“She's going to be fine, Geralt. More than fine. She's going to be magnificent.”

“Fuck knows she runs laps around us old bastards.” Geralt snorted. “Not even Lambert can keep up with Ciri.”

“I suspect Lambert is distracted of late with a particular kitty-cat.” Jaskier said, smirking.

“Were we as disgusting as they are when we first got here?”

“Us? Oh, darling, we were so much worse.”

Geralt let a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “I feel like I owe my brothers – and Vesemir – an apology, then.”

“Stuff and nonsense. You know they like seeing you happy. And it's been... Gods, has it really been six years?”

Geralt sighed, and sipped his tea. “Can't believe Ciri is turning sixteen today.”

“You and me both, love. It is time for her to walk The Path, though. She's aching for it. Her Elder is impeccable, her signs are outmatched, and though there are things I know she can only learn in true combat, well. She has her father's swordsmanship.” Jaskier pressed a kiss below Geralt's ear, in the tiny hollow there.

“She's a credit to us all,” Geralt said, “to Yennefer's skill and Triss' patience and Eskel's perseverance. To Vesemir's knowledge. And I suppose to Lambert's...”

“...Rogueish bastardry?” Jaskier supplied.

Geralt laughed. “Yes. To that.”

Jaskier grinned. “She is.”

“And whilst she does not possess your singing voice, Julek, you were always there to remind her of her humanity. To... remind all of us.” Geralt reached over and squeezed Jaskier's hand. “I can't tell you how invaluable that has been.”

“Well,” Jaskier ducked his heat, cheeks heated, “I do what I can.”

Geralt pressed his wind-chapped lips to the top of Jaskier's head. Breathed in the scent of him; sleepy bed-sheets, last night's soap, sticky-spilled honey. “I love you.”

“And I you, dearest.” Jaskier tilted his head up. “Forever and ever.”

“I am glad you're coming with us. With Ciri and I.”

“Only for as long as I won't be burdensome, we agreed that--”

“Jaskier.” Geralt caught Jaskier's chin with a hooked finger, locking his gaze firmly with the bard's. “You are never a burden. You will never be a burden.”

Jaskier's eyes softened. They were as the sky they sat beneath, washed pale and glowing with daybreak. “I can't go where I used to, Geralt. Sometimes I'll make do in an inn room, or at camp.”

“We have three horses.” Geralt said, “We'll take breaks if you need them. We'll--”

“Hey, hey, shh. My love, I know. I trust you. I also trust that you'll come back to me after each hunt. You'll come back to me, won't you?”

“Always.” Geralt whispered, smoothing his thumb along the line of Jaskier's jaw. “Married you, didn't I?”

“That you did. Ah, that'll be five years in a few months. Did you know that the traditional gift for that milestone is wood? Easiest thing in the world for you, being as I am a musician. But whatever am I to get for you?”

“I can think of some wood I'd like from you.”

“Some w-- oh, oh you crass man! You foul,” Jaskier giggled into the kisses Geralt planted at the corners of his lips, “nasty thing. Cannot believe I gave my unsullied virtue over to you.”

And Geralt laughed at that, freely, wrapped warmly in the arms of the man he loved.

* * *

Jaskier warmed his hands by the fire, clenching them into fists and relaxing them. The old breaks of his healed fingers were beginning to ache less with the passing of winter. His poor, neglected lute sat carefully on the seat beside him, awaiting a good tuning.

The strings hummed as he plucked them carefully, listening for any discordance. Occasionally, he fiddled with a tuning peg. In no time at all, the sound was to his liking. Jaskier smiled fondly.

“I missed you, old girl.”

“I knew you talked to your lute.”

Cirilla's voice startled Jaskier, and he half-turned where he sat, gasping to calm the race of his heart. “For goodness' sake--you little imp, you're far too deft now, you know that?”

Ciri giggled, plopping gracelessly onto a cushion before the fireplace. All long limbs, the awkwardness of a growing teenager met with the lean muscle of a warrior-woman. Jaskier knew she'd be a force to shake the Continent apart.

“I'm just doing what Dad taught me.” She defended, sweetly.

“He would teach you to be a ratbag. Your father is king of all ratbags. It must be said that you are not a Cintran princess, sweet girl, but a ratbag princess.”

“I'm gonna tell him you said that.” Ciri said, raising her eyebrows, all grin and dare.

“You would never.”

“I might. Unless... oh, I don't know. Unless you sing me a song.”

“A ratbag and a varlet. I am being coerced.” Jaskier sniffed for the drama of it, and then ran his fingers down the lute's neck. “Very well, my dear. But only because it's your birthday.”

“Mother says you'd play for your own echo beside an empty well just as happily as you'd play for a room of hundreds.” Ciri leaned forward, baiting.

Jaskier huffed, hooked on the playful barb too easily. “Well, Yennefer is smart, then. Because the acoustics of an empty well are wonderfully haunting, you see, and--”

“Uncle?”

“Hmm?”

“I want to hear a song about you and Dad.”

Thoughtfully, Jaskier picked at a string. “You don't want to hear something scandalous and rowdy, now that you are practically a grown woman?”

Ciri shook her head. “Sing me something you wrote when you knew that you loved him.”

“Ah,” Jaskier smiled, “we shall be going a long way back for that, sweetpea. Before I met you, certainly. Now, let's see...” He strummed a chord. “This isn't one for the taverns. It's no _'Toss a Coin'_. Last chance to hear a ballad about bare buttocks--”

“Uncle!” Ciri whined, “I wanna hear this.”

Jaskier sighed. “Very well, you ratbag-lion. I called this one _'Beside You'_.”

Without further stalling, Jaskier began to play. A slow, haunting melody filled the small sitting room. And then Jaskier sung.

_A corner dark and solemn_

_Sat a quiet man of gold_

_Fearsome fighter, freakish_

_Or so the boy was told_

_Be it foolish, be it fate_

_He truly ne'er knew_

_This man did walk with him_

_With the tender boy of blue_

_O truth, begone from here_

_You've nothing new to lend_

_Beside him boy-blue found_

_The service of a friend_

_O truth, begone from here_

_You've no word from above_

_Beside him boy-blue found_

_The secrets known in love_

The last of the notes faded. Jaskier blinked back an unexpected haze of tears, old memories filmy in the eye of his mind. He glanced over at Ciri.

“That was pretty.” She whispered, wide-eyed. “So he... he didn't know? That you liked him?”

Jaskier shook his head. “I think he did, in some way. But he was scared. Sometimes it's easier to believe lies you tell yourself, because of what you might have to lose with the truth.”

“What changed, then?”

“He did lose me. He lost me and found me and when we both knew that there was no certainty of tomorrow, it was worth risking everything. To be honest with each other. We can't claim the time we wasted, afraid, from the past. But we can promise a future together.”

Ciri sniffed, and smiled. “I'm glad he found you again.”

Jaskier set his lute down beside him. “As am I, sweetheart. Now, then. I have it on good authority that a breakfast feast is being prepared for a certain fledgling witcher. What say we get to the kitchen before Eskel has at all the ham?”

“Oh! You're so right,” Ciri sprung to her feet, “there'll be nothing but crumbs left. Fuck!” And off she shot, yelling promises of vengeance down the hall to anyone that dared to touch the potato pancakes before she got there.

“For the record, I refrained from swearing around her.” Jaskier said, not turning around.

“How did you know I was here?” Geralt murmured, stepping out of the shadows, draping himself lovingly over Jaskier's back.

“I know your sneakery at this point, darling-dearest.” Jaskier kissed the inside of Geralt's elbows.

“My ratbaggery?”

“You heard that? I shan't rescind my remarks, my liege.”

“I'd never ask such a thing of you.” Geralt said, snuffling into the back of Jaskier's neck, making the bard squirm and chuckle. “It's nice to be king of something.”

“King of ratbags, king of cold feet in bed, king of—oh! Oh, unhand me!” Jaskier squealed, as Geralt hefted him from the chair like he was weightless, slinging him across one massive shoulder. “Help! I'm being accosted!”

“Silence in the throne room.” Geralt thumped Jaskier's rump.

“Villain! A faux claim of nobility! The tittering at court, the absolute disgrace of—wait, does this make me your royal consort?”

Geralt paused, carefully lowering Jaskier back to his feet, steadying him. “Can't you be a king too?”

“That's not how monarchies work, love.”

“Hmm.” Geralt frowned, and then shrugged. “Don't care. You're a king to me.”

Jaskier blushed sweetly. “You're dangerously close to being sappy, Geralt.”

“Am I?”

“You are.”

“Good.” And the two self-crowned royals shared a loving, private kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my tumblr: @inber for more drabble/general stupid.


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